Ah, Wilderness !
and
Days Without End
Two Plays by
Eugene O’Neill
Jonathan Capo
Thirty Bedford Square, I .ondon
C/wmoN : Professionals and amateurs are hereby viarned that Ah, Wilderness 1,
being fully protected under the copyright lame of the Dmted States of America,
the British Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and all other country
of the copyright union, it subject to a royalty. All rights, including professional,
Imateur, motion pictures, recitation, public reading, radio broadcasting, and the
rights of translation into foreign languages are strtct.y reserved. In set present
form this play is dedicated to the reading public only, Alt inquiries regarding thn
play should ^be addressed to Richard J, Madden Plat Company, at 33 H est
+%nd Street, New Tork City % N>T,
FIRST PVBLISHLD IN ENGLAND *934
RE-iSSLH> *9>5
REPRINTED *95$
MINTED IN CEEAT BRITAIN BY
0* R. HILLMAN U SONS, LTD., FROME
BOUND BY A. W. BAIN H CO., LTD., LONDON
to
GEORGE JEAN NATHAN
WHO ALSO, ONCE UPON A TIME, IN PEG-
TOP TROUSERS WENT THE PACE THAT KILLS
ALONG THE ROAD TO RUIN
Wilderness I
Scenes
ACT ONE
Sitting-room of the Miller home in a large small-town in
Connecticut — early morning, July 4th, 1906.
ACT TWO
Dining-room of the Miller home — evening of the same
day.
ACT THREE
Scene One : Back room of a bar in a small hotel — 10
o’clock the same night.
Scene Two : Same as Act One — the sitting-room of the
Miller home — a little after 1 1 o’clock the same night.
ACT FOUR
Scene One : The Miller sitting-room again — about 1
o’clock the following afternoon.
Scene Two : A strip of beach along the harbour — about
9 o’clock that night.
Scene Three : Same as Scene One — the sitting-room —
about xo o’clock the same night.
9
Characters
Nat Miller, owner of the Evening Globe ”
Essie, his wife
Arthur
Richard
Mildred
Tommy
Sid Davis, Essie's brother
Lily Miller, Nat's sister
David McComber
Muriel McComber, his daughter
Wint Selby, a classmate of Arthur's at Tale
Belle
Norah
Bartender
Salesman
V
>their children
j
io
ACT ONE
scene. Sitting-room of the Miller home in a large small-
town in Connecticut — about 7.30 in the morning of
July 4 th, 1906.
The room is fairly large , homely looking and cheerful
in the morning sunlight , furnished with scrupulous
medium-priced tastelessness of the period. Beneath the
two windows at left , front , a sofa with silk and satin
cushions stands against the wall. At rear of sofa , a
bookcase with glass doors, filled with cheap sets , extends
along the remaining length of wall. In the rear wall ,
left , is a double doorway with sliding doors and portilres,
leading into a dark , windowless, lack parlour. At
right of this doorway , another bookcase, this time a
small, open one , crammed with boys' and \ girls' books
and the best-selling novels of many past years — books
the family really have read. To the right of this book-
case is the mate of the double doorway at its left, with
sliding doors and portieres , this one leading to a well-
lighted front parlour. In the right wall, rear , a screen
door opens on a porch. Farther forward in this wall
are two windows, with a writing-desk and a chair
between them. At centre is a big, round table with a
green-shaded reading-lamp, the cord of the lamp running
up to one of five sockets in the chandelier above. Five
chairs are grouped about the table — three rockers at left,
right, and right rear of it, two armchairs at rear and
left rear. A medium-priced, inoffensive rug covers
II
"AH, WILDERNESS !
most of the floor. The walls are papered white with a
cheerful , ugly blue design.
Voices are heard in a conversational tone from the
dining-room beyond the back parlour , where the family
are just finishing breakfast. Then Mrs. Miller's voice,
raised commandingly , “ Tommy ! Come, back here
and finish your milk ! ” At the same moment Tommy
appears in the doorway from the back parlour — a
chubby , sunburnt boy of eleven with dark eyes , blond
hair wetted and plastered down in a parting , and a shiny ,
good-natured face , a rim of milk visible about his lips.
Bursting with bottled-up energy and a longing to get
started on the Fourth , he nevertheless has hesitated
obediently at his mother's call.
tommy ( calls back pleadingly). Aw, I’m full, Ma.
And I said excuse me and you said all right. (His
Father's voice is heard speaking to his mother. Then she
calls : “ All right, Tommy,” and Tommy asks eagerly .)
Can I go out now ?
mother’s voice (correctingly). May I !
tommy ( fidgeting , but obediently). May I, Ma ?
mother’s voice. Yes. (Tommy jumps for the screen
door to the porch at right like a sprinter released by the starting-
shot.)
father’s voice (shouts after him). But you set off your
crackers away from the house, remember ! (But Tommy
is already through the screen door , which he leaves open
behind him.)
(A moment later the family appear from the back
parlour , coming from the dining-room. First
are Mildred and Arthur. Mildred is fifteen ,
12
AH, WILDERNESS !
tall and slender , with big , irregular features ,
resembling her father to the complete effacing
of any pretence at prettiness . But her big ,
grey eyes are beautiful ; she has vivacity and
a fetching smile , and everyone thinks of her as
an attractive girl. She is dressed in blouse and
skirt in the fashion of the period.
Arthur , the eldest of the Miller children who
are still living at home, is nineteen. He is tall,
heavy, barrel-chested and muscular, the type
of football linesman of that period, with a
square, stolid face , small blue eyes and thick
sandy hair. His manner is solemnly collegiate.
He is dressed in the latest college fashion of
that day, which has receded a bit from the
extreme of preceding years, but still runs to
padded shoulders and trousers half pegged at the
top, and so small at their wide-cuffed bottoms
that they cannot be taken off with shoes on.)
mildred (as they appear — inquisitively). Where are
you going to-day, Art ?
Arthur (with superior dignity). That's my business.
(He ostentatiously takes from his pocket a tobacco pouch with
a big “ T ” and class numerals stamped on it, and a heavy
bulldog briar pipe with silver “ T ” and numerals, and
starts filling the pipe.)
mildred ( teasingly ). Bet I know, just the same I
Want me to tell you her initials ? E.R. ! ( She laughs.)
( Arthur , pleased by this insinuation at his lady-Hlling
activities, yet finds it beneath his dignity to reply.
He goes to the table, lights his pipe and picks
up the local morning paper, and slouches back
13
AH, WILDERNESS !
into the armchair at left rear of table , beginning
to whistle “ Oh, Waltz Me Around Again ,
Willie ” as he scans the headlines. Mildred
sits on the sofa at left , front.
Meanwhile , their mother and their Aunt
"Lily, their father's sister , have appeared ,
following them from the back parlour. Mrs.
Miller is around fifty, a short , stout woman
with fading light-brown hair sprinkled with
grey, who must have been decidedly pretty as
a girl in a round-faced, cute , small-featured,
wide-eyed fashion. She has big brown eyes,
soft and maternal — a bustling , mother-of-a-
family manner. She is dressed in blouse and
skirt.
Lily Miller, her sister-in-law , is forty-two,
tall, dark and thin. She conforms outwardly to
the conventional type of old-maid school teacher,
even to wearing glasses. But behind the
glasses her grey eyes are gentle and tired, and
her whole atmosphere is one of sky kindliness.
Her voice presents the greatest contrast to her
appearance — soft and full of sweetness. She,
also, is dressed in a blouse and skirt.')
mrs. miller (as they appear). Getting milk down him
is like ( Suddenly she is aware of the screen door
standing half open.) Goodness, look at that door he’s
left open ! The house will be alive with flies 1 (Rush-
ing out to shut it.) I’ve told him again and again — and
that’s all the good it does ! It’s just a waste of breath !
(She slams the door shut.)
lily (smiling). Well, you can’t expect a boy to remem-
ber to shut doors — on the Fourth of July. (She goes
14
AH, WILDERNESS !
diffidently to the straight-hacked chair before the desk at right ,
front , leaving the comfortable chairs to the others .)
mrs. miller. That’s you all over, Lily — always
making excuses for him. You’ll have him spoiled to
death in spite of me. ( She sinks in rocker at right of
table.) Phew, I’m hot, aren’t you ? This is going to
be a scorcher. {She picks up a magazine from the table
and begins to rock , fanning herself.)
( "Meanwhile , her husband and her brother have
appeared from the back parlour , both smoking
cigars. Nat Miller is in his late fifties, a tall,
dark, spare man, a little stoop-shouldered, more
than a little bald, dressed with an awkward
attempt at sober respectability imposed upon an
innate heedlessness of clothes. His long face
has large, irregular, undistinguished features,
but he has fine , shrewd, humorous grey eyes.
Sid Davis , his brother-in-law, is forty-five,
short and fat , bald-headed , with the Puckish
face of a Peck's Bad Boy who has never grown
up. He is dressed in what had once been a
very natty loud light suit but is now a shapeless
and faded nondescript in cut and colour .)
sid {as they appear). Oh, I like the job first rate, Nat.
Waterbury’s a nifty old town with the lid off, when you
get to know the ropes. I rang in a joke in one of my
stories that tickled the folks there pink. Waterwagon
— Waterbury — Waterloo ! ^ I
miller {grinning ). Darn good !
sid (^pleased). I thought it was pretty fair myself.
{Goes on a bit ruefully, as if oppressed by a secret sorrow.)
l 5
AH, WILDERNESS !
Yes, you can see life in Waterbury, all right — that is, if
you’re looking for life in Waterbury 1
mrs. miller. What’s that about Waterbury, Sid ?
sid. I was saying it’s all right in its way — but there’s
no place like home.
(As if to punctuate this remark , there begins a series
of bangs from just beyond the porch outside , as
Tommy inaugurates his celebration by setting off
a package of firecrackers. The assembled
family jump in their chairs.)
MRS. MILLER. That boy ! (She rushes to the screen
door and out on the porch , calling:) Tommy ! You
mind what your Pa told you ! You take your crackers
out in the back-yard, you hear me !
Arthur (frowning scornfully). Fresh kid ! He did it
on purpose to scare us.
miller (grinning through his annoyance). Darned
youngster ! He’ll have the house afire before the day’s
out.
sid (grins and sings).
“ Dunr.o what ter call ’im
But he’s mighty like a Rose — velt.”
(They all laugh.)
lily. Sid, you Crazy !
(Sid beams at her . Mrs. Miller comes back from
the porch , still fuming.)
mrs. miller. Well, I’ve made him go out back at
last. Now we'll have a little peace.
AH, WILDERNESS !
{As if to contradict this , the bang of firecrackers and
torpedoes begins from the rear of the house ,
left , and continues at intervals throughout the
scene , not nearly so loud as the first explosion ,
but sufficiently emphatic to form a disturbing
punctuation to the conversation . )
miller. Well, what’s on the tappee for all of you
to-day ? Sid, you’re coming to the Sachem Club picnic
with me, of course.
sid { a bit embarrassedly ). You bet. I mean I’d like
to, Nat — that is, if
mrs. miller ( regarding her brother with smiling sus-
picion). Hmm ! I know what that Sachem Club pic-
nics always meant 1
lily ( breaks in in a forced joking tone that conceals a
deep earnestness ). No, not this time, Essie. Sid’s a
reformed character since he’s been on the paper in Water-
bury. At least, that’s what he swore to me last night.
sid {avoiding her eyes , humiliated— joking it off). Pure
as the driven snow, that’s me. They’re running me for
president of the W.C.T.U.
{They all laugh.)
mrs. miller. Sid, you’re a caution. You turn every-
thing into a joke. But you be careful, you hear ? We’re
going to have dinner in the evening to-night, you know
— the best shore dinner you ever tasted and I don’t want
you coming home — well, not able to appreciate it.
lily. Oh, I know he’ll be careful to-day. Won’t
you, Sid ?
sid {more embarrassed than ever — joking it off melo-
a.w. 17 b
AH, WILDERNESS !
dramatically). Lily, I swear to you if any man offers me
a drink, I’ll kill him — that is, if he changes his mind !
(They all laugh except Lily, who bites her lip and
stiffens.)
mrs. miller. No use talking to him, Lily. You
ought to know better by this time. We can only hope
for the best.
miller. Now, you women stop picking on Sid. It’s
the Fourth of July and even a downtrodden newspaper-
man has a right to enjoy himself when he’s on his holiday.
mrs. miller. I wasn’t thinking only of Sid.
miller (with a wink at the others). What, are you
insinuating I ever ?
mrs. miller. Well, to do you justice, no, not what
you’d really call But I’ve known you to come back
from this darned Sachem Club picnic Well, I
didn’t need any little bird to whisper that you’d been
some place besides to the well ! (She smiles good-
naturedly. Miller chuckles .)
sid (after a furtive glance at the stiff and silent Lily —
changes the subject abruptly, by turning to Arthur). How
are you spending the festive Fourth, Boola-Boola ?
(Arthur stiffens dignifiedly .)
mildred (teasingly). I can tell you, if he won’t.
mrs. miller (smiling). Off to the Rands’, I suppose.
Arthur (with dignity). I and Bert Turner are taking
Elsie and Ethel Rand canoeing. We’re going to have a
picnic lunch on Strawberry Island. And this evening
I’m staying at the Rands’ for dinner.
1 8
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller. You’re accounted for, then. How about
you. Mid ?
mildred. I’m going to the beach to Anne Culver’s.
Arthur ( sarcastically ). Of course, there won’t be any
boys present ! Johnny Dodd, for example ?
mildred ( giggles — then with a coquettish toss of her head).
Pooh 1 What do I care for him ? He’s not the only
pebble on the beach.
miller. Stop your everlasting teasing, you two.
How about you and Lily, Essie ?
mrs. miller. I don’t know. I haven’t made any
plans. Have you, Lily ?
lily {quietly). No. Anything you want to do.
mrs. miller. Well, I thought we’d just sit around
and rest and talk.
miller. You can gossip any day. This is the Fourth.
Now, I’ve got a better suggestion than that. What do
you say to an automobile ride ? I’ll get out the Buick
and we’ll drive around town and out to the lighthouse and
back. Then Sid and I will let you off here, or anywhere
you say, and we’ll go on to the picnic.
mrs. miller. I’d love it. Wouldn’t you, Lily ?
lily. It would be nice.
miller. Then, that’s all settled.
sid (embarrassedly). Lily, want to come with me to
the fireworks display at the beach to-night ?
mrs. miller. That’s right, Sid. You take her out.
19
AH, WILDERNESS !
Poor Lily never has any fun, always sitting home with
me.
lily ( flustered and grateful). I — I’d like to, Sid, thank
you. (Then an apprehensive look comes over her face)
Only not if you come home — you know.
sid ( again embarrassed and humiliated — again joking it
off, solemnly). Evil-minded, I’m afraid, Nat. I hate to
say it of your sister.
(They all laugh. Even Lily cannot suppress a
smile)
Arthur (with heavy jocularity). Listen, Uncle Sid.
Don’t let me catch you and Aunt Lily spooning on a
bench to-night — or it’ll be my duty to call a cop !
(Sid and Lily both look painfully embarrassed at this ,
and the joke falls flat , except for Mildred who
can't restrain a giggle at the thought of these two
ancients spooning)
MRS. miller (rcbukingly). Arthur !
miller (dryly). That’ll do you. Your education in
kicking a football around Yale seems to have blunted your
sense of humour.
mrs. miller (suddenly — startledly). But where’s
Richard ? We’re forgetting all about him. Why,
where is that boy ? I thought he came in with us from
breakfast.
mildred. I’ll bet he’s off somewhere writing a poem
to Muriel McComber, the silly ! Or pretending to
write one. I think he just copies
arthur (looking back toward the dining-room). He’s
Still in the dining-room, reading a book, (Turning back
20
AH, WILDERNESS !
— scornfully .) Gosh, he’s always reading now. It’s not
my idea of having a good time in vacation.
miller ( caustically ). He read his school books, too,
strange as that may seem to you. That’s why he came
out top of his class. I’m hoping before you leave New
Haven they’ll find time to teach you reading is a good habit.
mrs. miller (sharply). That reminds me, Nat. I’ve
been meaning to speak to you about those awful books
Richard is reading. You’ve got to give him a good talk-
ing to ( She gets up from her chair l) I’ll go up and
get them right now. I found them where he’d hid them
on the shelf in his wardrobe. You just wait till you see
what
( She hustles off , rear rights through the front parlour .)
miller (plainly not relishing whatever is coming — to Sid ,
grumblingly). Seems to me she might wait until the
Fourth is over before bringing up (Then with a
grin.) I know there’s nothing to it, anyway. When I
think of the books I used to sneak off and read when I
was a kid.
sid. Me, too. I suppose Dick is deep in Nick Carter
or Old Cap Collier.
miller. No, he passed that period long ago.
Poetry’s his red meat nowadays, I think — love poetry
— and socialism, too, I suspect, from some dire declara-
tions he’s made. ( Then briskly.) Well, might as well
get him on the carpet. (He calls.) Richard. (No
answer — louder.) Richard. (No answer — then in a bel-
low.) Richard 1
Arthur (shouting). Hey, Dick, wake up ! Pa’s call-
ing you.
2,1
AH, WILDERNESS !
Richard’s voice (Jrom the dining-room). All right.
I’m coming.
miller. Darn him 1 When he gets his nose in a
book, the house could fall down and he’d never
( Richard appears in the doorway from the back par-
lour the book he has been reading in one hand ,
a finger marking his place. He looks a bit
startled still , reluctantly called back to earth
from another world.
He is going on seventeen , just out of high
school. In appearance he is a perfect blend of
father and mother , so much so that each is con-
vinced he is the image of the other. He has his
mother's light-brown hair , his father's grey
eyes ; his features are neither large nor small ;
he is of medium height , neither fat nor thin.
One would not call him a handsome boy ;
neither is he homely . But he is definitely
different from both of his parents , too. There
is something of extreme sensitiveness added —
a restless , apprehensive, defiant , shy, dreamy
self-conscious intelligence about him. In man-
ner he is alternately plain simple boy and a
posy actor solemnly playing a role. He is
dressed in prep, school reflection of the college
style of Arthur.)
richard. Did you want me, Pa ?
miller. I’d hoped I'd made that plain. Come and
sit down a while. (He points to the rocking chair at the
right of table near his.)
richard (coming forward — seizing on the opportunity to
22
AH, WILDERNESS !
play up his preoccupation — with apologetic superiority ). I
didn’t hear you, Pa. I was off in another world.
( Mildred slyly shoves her foot out so that he trips
over it, almost jailing . She laughs gleefully.
So does Arthur .)
Arthur. Good for you, Mid ! That’ll wake him
up !
richard (grins sheepishly — all boy now). Darn you,
Mid ! I’ll show you !
(He pushes her back on the sofa and tickles her with
his free hand, still holding the book in the other.
She shrieks .)
Arthur. Give it to her, Dick !
miller. That’s enough, now. No more rough-
house. You sit down here, Richard.
(Richard obediently takes the chair at right of table ,
opposite his father .)
What were you planning to do with yourself to-day ?
Going out to the beach with Mildred ?
richard (scornfully superior). That silly skirt party 1
I should say not !
mildred. He’s not coming because Muriel isn’t.
I’ll bet he’s got a date with her somewheres.
richard ( flushing bashfully). You shut up 1 (Then to
his father.) I thought I’d just stay home, Pa — this
morning, anyway.
miller. Help Tommy set off firecrackers, eh ?
richard (drawing himself up — with dignity). I should
23
AH, WILDERNESS !
say not. (Then frowning -portentously .) I don’t believe
in this silly celebrating the Fourth of July — all this lying
talk about liberty — when there is no liberty 1
miller (a twinkle in his eye). Hmm.
richard (getting warmed up). The land of the free
and the home of the brave ! Home of the slave is what
they ought to call it — the wage slave ground under the
heel of the capitalist class, starving, crying for bread for
his children, and all he gets is a stone ! The Fourth of
July is a stupid farce 1
miller (putting a hand to his mouth to conceal a grin).
Hmm. Them are mighty strong words. You’d better
not repeat such sentiments outside the bosom of the
family or they’ll have you in jail.
sid. And throw away the key.
richard (darkly). Let them put me in jail. But how
about the freedom of speech in the Constitution, then ?
That must be a farce, too. ( Then he adds grimly.) No,
you can celebrate your Fourth of July. I’ll celebrate the
day the people bring out the guillotine again and I see
Pierpont Morgan being driven by in a tumbril 1
(His father and Sid are greatly amused ; Lily is
shocked but taking her cue from them, smiles.
Mildred stares at him in puzzled wonderment ,
never having heard this particular line before.
Only Arthur betrays the outraged reaction of a
patriot)
Arthur. Aw say, you fresh kid, tie that bull outside !
You ought to get a punch in the nose for talking that
way on the Fourth !
24
AH, WILDERNESS !
. miller ( solemnly ). Son, if I didn’t know it was you
talking, I’d think we had Emma Goldman with us.
Arthur. Never mind, Pa. Wait till we get him
down to Yale. We’ll take that out of him !
richard (with high scorn). Oh, Yale ! You think
there’s nothing in the world besides Yale. After all.
what is Yale ?
Arthur. You’ll find out what !
sid (provocatively ). Don’t let them scare you, Dick.
Give ’em hell !
lily (shocked). Sid ! You shouldn’t swear be-
fore —
richard. What do you think I am, Aunt Lily — a
baby ? I’ve heard worse than anything Uncle Sid says.
mildred. And said worse himself, I bet.
miller (with a comic air of resignation). Well, Richard,
I’ve always found I’ve had to listen to at least one stump
speech every Fourth. I only hope getting your extra
strong one right after breakfast will let me off for the
rest of the day. (They all laugh now , taking this as a cue.)
richard (sombrely). That’s right, laugh ! After you,
the deluge, you think 1 But look out 1 Supposing it
comes before ? Why shouldn’t the workers of the world
unite and rise ? They have nothing to lose but their
chains 1 (He recites threateningly.) “ The days grow
hot, O Babylon ! ’Tis cool beneath thy willow trees 1 ”
miller. Hmm. That’s good. But where’s the
connection, exactly ? Something from that book you’re
reading ?
2 5
AH, WILDERNESS !
rxchard {superior). No. That’s poetry. This is
prose.
miller. I’ve heard there was a difference between
’em. What is the book ?
richard ( importantly ). Carlyle’s “ French Revolu-
tion.”
miller. Hmm. So that’s where you drove the
tumbril from and piled poor old Pierpont in it. (Then
seriously .) Glad you’re reading it, Richard. It’s a darn
fine book.
richard (with unflattering astonishment ). What, have
you read it ?
miller. Well, you see, even a newspaper owner can’t
get out of reading a book every now and again.
richard (abashed). I — I didn’t mean — I know you
(Then enthusiastically .) Say, isn’t it a great book,
though — that part about Mirabeau — and about Marat
and Robespierre
mrs. miller (appears from the front parlour in a great
state of flushed annoyance). Never you mind Robespierre,
young man ! You tell me this minute where you’ve
hidden those books ! They were on the shelf in your
wardrobe and now you’ve gone and hid them somewheres
else. You go right up and bring them to your father 1
( Richard , for a second , looks suddenly guilty and
crushed. Then he bristles defensively .)
miller (after a quick understanding glance at him).
Never mind his getting them now. We’ll waste the
whole morning over those darned books. And anyway,
2 6
AH, WILDERNESS !
he has a right to keep his library to himself — that is, if
they’re not too What books are they, Richard ?
richard ( self-consciously ). Well — there’s
mrs. miller. I’ll tell you, if he won’t — and you give
him a good talking to. (Then, after a glance at Richard ,
mollifiedly.) Not that I blame Richard. There must be
some boy he knows who’s trying to show off as advanced
and wicked, and he told him about
richard. No ! I read about them myself, in the
papers and in other books.
mrs. miller. Well, no matter how, there they were
on his shelf. Two by that awful Oscar Wilde they put
in jail for heaven knows what wickedness.
Arthur (suddenly — solemnly authoritative). He com-
mitted bigamy. (Then as Sid smothers a burst of ribald
laughter.) What are you laughing at ? I guess I ought
to know. A fellow at college told me. His father was
in England when this Wilde was pinched — and he said
he remembered once his mother asked his father about
it and he told her he’d committed bigamy.
miller ( hiding a smile behind his hand). Well then,
that must be right, Arthur.
mrs. miller. I wouldn’t put it past him, nor any-
thing else. One book was called the Picture of some-
thing or other.
richard. “ The Picture of Dorian Gray.” It’s one
of the greatest novels ever written !
mrs. miller. Looked to me like cheap trash. And
the second book was poetry. The Ballad of I forget what.
27
AH, WILDERNESS !
richard. “ The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” one of the
greatest poems ever written. (He pronounces it Reading
Goal [as in goalpost].')
mrs. miller. All about someone who murdered his
wife and got hung, as he richly deserved, as far as I could
make out. And then there were two books by that
Bernard Shaw
richard. The greatest playwright alive to-day !
mrs. miller. To hear him tell it, maybe ! You
know, Nat, the one who wrote a play about — well, never
mind — that was so vile they wouldn’t even let it play in
New York !
miller. Hmm. I remember.
mrs. miller. One was a book of his plays and the
other had a long title I couldn’t make head or tail of,
only it wasn’t a play.
richard (proudly). “ The Quintessence of Ibsenism.”
mildred. Phew ! Good gracious, what a name 1
What does it mean, Dick ? I’ll bet he doesn’t know.
richard (outraged). I do, too, know ! It’s about
Ibsen, the greatest playwright since Shakespeare 1
mrs. miller. Yes, there was a book of plays by that
Ibsen there, too 1 And poems by Swin something
richard. “ Poems and Ballads by Swinburne,” Ma.
The greatest poet since Shelley ! He tells the truth
about real love !
mrs. miller. Love 1 Well, all I can 'say is, from
reading here and there, that if he wasn’t flung in jail
28
AH, WILDERNESS !
along with Wilde, he should have been. Some of the
things I simply couldn’t read, they were so indecent
All about — well, I can’t tell you before Lily and Mildred.
sid (with a wink at Richard— jokingly). Remember,
I’m next on that one, Dick. I feel the need of a little
poetical education.
lily ( scandalized , but laughing). Sid ! Aren’t you
ashamed ?
MRS. miller. This is no laughing matter. And then
there was Kipling — but I suppose he’s not so bad. And
last there was a poem — a long one — the Rubay
What is it, Richard ?
richard. “ The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.”
That’s the best of all 1
miller. Oh, I’ve read that, Essie — got a copy down
at the office.
sid ( enthusiastically ). So have I. It’s a pippin !
lily (with shy excitement). I — I’ve read it, tpo — at the
library. I like — some parts of it.
mrs. miller (scandalized). Why, Lily !
miller. Everybody’s reading that now, Essie — and
it don’t seem to do them any harm. There’s fine things
in it, seems to me — true things.
mrs. miller (a bit bewildered and uncertain now).
Why, Nat, I don’t see how you It looked terrible
blasphemous — parts I read.
sid. Remember this one : (he quotes rhetorically)
“ Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and gin beset the
29
AH, WILDERNESS !
path I was to wander in ” Now, I’ve always
noticed how beset my path was with gin — in the past,
you understand !
(He casts a joking side glance at Lily. The others
laugh. But Lily is in a melancholy dream
and hasn't heard him '. )
mrs. miller (, tartly , but evidently suppressing her usual
smile where he is concerned). You would pick out the
ones with liquor in them !
lily ( suddenly — with a sad pathos , quotes awkwardly and
shyly). I like — because it’s true :
“ The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,
Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.”
mrs. miller (astonished, as are all the others). Why,
Idly, I never knew you to recite poetry before !
lily (immediately guilty and apologetic). I — it just stuck
in my memory somehow.
Richard (looking at her as if he had never seen her before).
Good for you, Aunt Lily ! (Then enthusiastically .) But
that isn’t the best. The best is :
“ A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ”
Arthur (who, bored to death by all this poetry quoting ,
has wandered over to the window at rear of desk , right).
Hey 1 Look who’s coming up the walk Old Man
McComber !
30
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( irritably ). Dave ? . Now what in thunder
does that damned old Sid, I can see where we
never are going to get to that picnic.
mrs. miller ( vexatiously ). He’ll know we’re in this
early, too. No use lying. (Then appalled by another
thought .) That Norah — she’s that thick, she never can
answer the front door right unless I tell her each time.
Nat, you’ve got to talk to Dave. I’ll have her show him
in here. Lily, you run up the back stairs and get your
things on. I’ll be up in a second. Nat, you get rid of
him the first second you can ! Whatever can the old fool
want
(She and Lily hurry out through the back parlour .)
Arthur. I’m going to beat it — -just time to catch the
eight-twenty trolley.
mildred. I’ve got to catch that, too. Wait till I get
my hat, Art 1
(She rushes into the back parlour .)
Arthur (shouts after her). I can’t wait. You can
catch up with me if you hurry. (He turns at the back-
parlour door — with a grin.) McComber may be coming
to see if your intentions toward his daughter are dis-
honourable, Dick ! You’ d better beat it while your shoes
are good !
(He disappears through the back-parlour door,
laughing)
richard (a bit shaken, but putting on a brave front).
Think I’m scared of him ?
miller (gazing at him — frowning). Can’t imagine
what But it’s to complain about something, I
3i
AH, .WILDERNESS !
know that. I only wish I didn’t have to be pleasant
with the old buzzard — but he’s about the most valuable
advertiser I’ve got.
sid (sympathetically). I know. But tell him to go to
hell, anyway. He needs that ad more than you.
(The sound of the bell comes from the rear of the
house, off left from back parlour .)
miller. There he is. You clear out, Dick — but
come right back as soon as he’s gone, you hear ? I’m
not through with you, yet.
richard. Yes, Pa.
miller. You better clear out, too, Sid. You know
Dave doesn’t approve jokes.
sid. And loves me like poison ! Come on, Dick,
we’ll go out and help Tommy celebrate.
(He takes Richard's arm and they also disappear
through the back-parlour door. Miller glances
through the front parlour toward the front
door , then calls in a tone of strained heartiness .)
miller. Hello, Dave. Come right in here. What
good wind blows you around on this glorious Fourth ?
(A flat , brittle voice answers him : “ Good morn-
ing,” and a moment later David McComber
appears in the doorway from the front parlour.
He is a thin , dried-up little man with a head
too large for his body perched on a scrawny
neck , and a long solemn horse face with deep-
set little black eyes , a blunt formless nose and
a tiny slit of a mouth. He is about the same
age as Miller but is entirely bald , and looks
3 ^
AH, WILDERNESS !
ten years older. He is dressed with a prim
neatness in shiny old black clothes.)
Here, sit down and make yourself comfortable. ( Holding
out the cigar-box.) Have a cigar ?
mccomber ( sitting down in the chair at the right of table
— acidly). You’re forgetting. I never smoke.
miller {forcing a laugh at himself). That’s so. So I
was. Well, I’ll smoke alone then. {He bites off the end
of the cigar viciously , as if he wished it were McComber' s
head , and sits down opposite him.)
mccomber. You asked me what brings me here, so
I’ll come to the point at once. I regret to say it’s some-
thing disagreeable — disgraceful would be nearer the
truth — and it concerns your son, Richard !
miller {beginning to bristle — but calmly). Oh, come
now, Dave, I’m sure Richard hasn’t
mccomber {sharply). And I’m positive he has.
You’re not accusing me of being a liar, I hope.
miller. No one said anything about liar. I only
meant you’re surely mistaken if you think
mccomber. I’m not mistaken. I have proof of
everything in his own handwriting !
miller {sharply). Let’s get down to brass tacks. Just
what is it you’re charging him with ?
mccomber. With being dissolute and blasphemous
— with deliberately attempting to corrupt the morals of
my young daughter Muriel.
miller. Then I’m afraid I will have to call you a liar,
Dave 1
a.w. 33 c
AH, WILDERNESS !
mccomber ( without taking offence — in the same flat ,
brittle voice). I thought you’d get around to that, so I
brought some of the proofs with me. I’ve a lot more of
’em at home. (He takes a wallet from his inside coat pocket,
selects five or six slips of paper, and holds them out to Miller.)
These are good samples of the rest. My wife discovered
them in one of Muriel’s bureau drawers hidden under the
underwear. They’re all in his handwriting, you can’t
deny it. Anyway, Muriel’s confessed to me he wrote
them. You read them and then say I’m a liar.
(Miller has taken the slips and is reading them
frowningly. McComber talks on.)
Evidently you’ve been too busy to take the right care
about Richard’s bringing up or what he’s allowed to
read — though I can’t see why his mother failed in her
duty. But that’s your misfortune, and none of my busi-
ness. But Muriel is my business and I can’t and I won’t
have her innocence exposed to the contamination of a
young man whose mind, judging from his choice of
reading matter, is as foul
miller (making a tremendous effort to control his temper).
Why, you damned old fool S Can’t you see Richard’s
only a fool kid who’s just at the stage when he’s out to
rebel against all authority, and so he grabs at everything
radical to read and wants to pass it on to his elders and his
girl and boy friends to show off what a young hellion he
is 1 Why, at heart you’d find Richard is just as innocent
and as big a kid as Muriel is ! (He pushes the slips of
paper across the table contemptuously.) This stuff doesn’t
mean anything to me — that is, nothing of what you think
it means. If yon believe this would corrupt Muriel, then
you must believe she’s easily corrupted 1 But I’ll bet
you’d find she knows a lot more about life than you give
34
AH, WILDERNESS !
her credit for — and can guess a stork didn’t bring her
down your chimney !
mccomber. Now you’re insulting my daughter. I
won’t forget that.
miller. I’m not insulting her. I think Muriel is a
darn nice girl. That’s why I’m giving her credit for
ordinary good sense. I’d say the same about my own
Mildred, who’s the same age.
mccomber. I know nothing about your Mildred
except that she’s known all over as a flirt. (Then more
sharply .) Well, I knew you’d prove obstinate, but I cer-
tainly never dreamed you’d have the impudence, after
reading those papers, to claim your son was innocent of
all wrongdoing !
miller. And what did you dream I’d do ?
mccomber. Do what it’s your plain duty to do as a
citizen to protect other people’s children ! Take and
give him a hiding he’d remember to the last day of his
life 1 You’d ought to do it for his sake, if you had any
sense — unless you want him to end up in jail !
miller (his fists clenched , leans across the table). Dave,
I’ve stood all I can stand from you 1 You get out !
And get out quick, if you don’t want a kick in the rear
to help you 1
mccomber ( again in his fiat , brittle voice, slowly getting
to his feet). You needn’t lose your temper. I’m only
demanding you do your duty by your own as I’ve already
done by mine. I’m punishing Muriel. She’s not to be
allowed out of the house for a month and she’s to be in
bed every night by eight sharp. And yet she’s blame-
less, compared to that
35
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller. I said I’d had enough out of you, Dave !
(He makes a threatening movement .)
mccomber. You needn’t lay hands on me. I’m
going. But there’s one thing more. (He takes a letter
from his walletl) Here’s a letter from Muriel for your
son. ( Puts it on the table.) It makes clear, I think,
how she’s come to think about him, now that her eyes
have been opened. I hope he heeds what’s inside —
for his own good and yours — because if I ever catch him
hanging about my place again I’ll have him arrested 1
And don’t think I’m not going to make you regret the
insults you’ve heaped on me. I’m taking the advertise-
ment for my store out of your paper — and it won’t go in
again, I tell you, not unless you apologize in writing and
promise to punish
miller. I’ll see you in hell first ! As for your
damned old ad, take it out and go to hell !
mccomber. That’s plain bluff. You know how
badly you need it. So do I. (He starts stiffly for the
door.)
miller. Here ! Listen a minute ! I’m just going
to call your bluff and tell you that, whether you want to
reconsider your decision or not, I’m going to refuse to
print your damned ad after to-morrow ! Put that in
your pipe and smoke it ! Furthermore, I’ll start a cam-
paign to encourage outside capital to open a dry-goods
store in opposition to you that won’t be the public
swindle I can prove yours is !
mccomber (a bit shaken by this threat — but in the same
flat tone). I’ll sue you for libel.
miller. When I get through, there won’t be a person
in town will buy a dish-rag in your place 1
36
AH, WILDERNESS !
mccomber ( more shaken , his eyes shifting about furtively).
That’s all bluff. You wouldn’t dare (Then finally
he says uncertainly :) Well, good day. (And turns and
goes out '. )
(Nat stands looking after him. Slowly the anger
drains from his face and leaves him looking
a bit sick and disgusted. Sid appears from
the back parlour. He is nursing a burn on
his right hand , but his face is one broad grin
of satisfaction.)
sid. I burned my hand with one of Tommy’s damned
firecrackers and came in to get some vaseline. I was
listening to the last of your scrap. Good for you, Nat !
You sure gave him hell !
miller (dully). Much good it’ll do. He knows it
was all talk.
sid. That’s just what he don’t know, Nat. The old
skinflint has a guilty conscience.
miller. Well, anyone who knows me knows I
wouldn’t use my paper for a dirty, spiteful trick like
that — no matter what he did to me.
sid. Yes, everyone knows you’re an old sucker, Nat,
too decent for your own good. But McComber never
saw you like this before. I tell you you scared the pants
off him. (He chuckles.)
miller (still dejectedly). I don’t know what made me
let go like that. The hell of skunks like McComber is
that after being with them ten minutes you become as
big skunks as they are.
sid ( notices the slips of paper on the table). What’s this ?
37
AH, WILDERNESS !
Something he brought ? (He picks them up and starts to
read .)
miller (grimly). Samples of the new freedom — from
those books Essie found — that Richard’s been passing
on to Muriel to educate her. They’re what started the
rumpus. (Then frowning.) I’ve got to do something
about that young anarchist or he’ll be getting me, and
himself, in a peck of trouble. (Then pathetically helpless .)
But what can I do ? Putting the curb bit on would make
him worse. Then he’d have a harsh tyrant to defy.
He’d love that, darn him !
sid (has been reading the slips , a broad grin on his face
— suddenly he whistles). Phew 1 This is a warm lulu
for fair 1 (He recites with a joking intensity.)
“ My life is bitter with thy love ; thine eyes
Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs
Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound— ”
miller (with a grim smile). Hmm. I missed that one.
That must be Mr. Swinburne’s copy. I’ve never read
him, but I’ve heard something like that was the matter
with him.
sid. Yes, it’s labelled Swinburne — “ Anactoria.”
Whatever that is. But wait, watch and listen ! The
worst is yet to come ! (He recites with added comic
intensity :)
“ That I could drink thy veins as wine, and eat
Thy breasts like honey, that from face to feet
Thy body were abolished and consumed,
And in my flesh thy very flesh entombed ! ”
miller (an irrepressible boyish grin canting to his face).
38
AH, WILDERNESS !
Hell and hallelujah ! Just picture old Dave digesting
that for the first time ! Gosh, I’d give a lot to have seen
his face ! (Then a trace of shocked reproof showing in his
voice.) But it’s no joking matter. That stuff is warm
— too damned warm, if you ask me ! I don’t like this a
damned bit, Sid. That’s no kind of thing to be sending
a decent girl. ( More worriedly .) I thought he was
really stuck on her — as one gets stuck on a decent girl
at his age — all moonshine and holding hands and a kiss
now and again. But this looks — I wonder if he is hang-
ing around her to see what he can get ? ( 'Angrily'. ) By
God, if that’s true, he deserves that licking McComber
says it’s my duty to give him ! I’ve got to draw the
line somewhere !
sxd. Yes, it won’t do to have him getting any decent
girl in trouble.
miller. The only thing I can do is put it up to him
straight. ( With pride.) Richard’ll stand up to his guns,
no matter what. I’ve never known him to lie to me.
sid (at a noise from the back parlour , looks that way — in
a whisper). Then now’s your chance. I’ll beat it and
leave you alone — see if the women folks are ready upstairs.
We ought to get started soon — if we’re ever going to
make that picnic.
(He is half-way to the entrance to the front parlour
as Richard enters from the back parlour , very
evidently nervous about McComber' s call.)
richard (adopting a forced , innocent tone). How’s your
hand, Uncle Sid ?
sid. All right, Dick, thanks — only hurts a little.
39
AH, WILDERNESS !
(He disappears. Miller watches his son jrowningly,
Richard gives him a quick side glance and grows
more guiltily self-conscious .)
richard ( forcing a snicker). Gee, Pa, Uncle Sid’s a
bigger kid than Tommy is. He was throwing fire-
crackers in the air and catching them on the back of his
hand and throwing ’em off again just before they went
off — and one came and he wasn’t quick enough, and it
went off almost on top of
miller. Never mind that. I’ve got something else
to talk to you about besides firecrackers.
richard ( apprehensively ). What, Pa ?
miller (suddenly puts both hands on his shoulders —
quietly). Look here, Son. I’m going to ask you a ques-
tion, and I want an honest answer. I warn you before-
hand if the answer is “ yes ” I’m going to punish you
and punish you hard because you’ll have done something
no boy of mine ought to do. But you’ve never lied to
me before, I know, and I don’t believe, even to save
yourself punishment, you’d lie to me now, would you ?
richard ( impressed — with dignity). I won’t lie, Pa.
miller. Have you been trying to have something to
do with Muriel — something you shouldn’t — you know
what I mean.
richard (stares at him for a moment , as if he couldn't com-
prehend — then, as he does , a look of shocked indignation comes
over his face). No ! What do you think 1 am, Pa ? I
never would ! She’s not that kind ! Why, I — I love
her ! Pm going to marry her — after I get out of college !
She’s said she would ! We’re engaged i
40
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (with great relief). All right. That’s all I
wanted to know. We won’t talk any more about it.
(He gives him an approving pat on the back '. )
richard. I don’t see how you could think Did
that old idiot McComber say that about me ?
miller (joking now). Shouldn’t call your future father-
in-law names, should you ? ’Tain’t respectful. (Then
after a glance at Richard's indignant face — points to the slips
of paper on the table.) Well, you can’t exactly blame old
Dave, can you, when you read through that literature you
wished on his innocent daughter ?
richard (sees the slips for the first time and is overcome
by embarrassment , which he immediately tries to cover up with
a superior carelessness). Oh, so that’s why. He found
those, did he ? I told her to be careful Well, it’ll
do him good to read the truth about life for once and get
rid of his old-fogy ideas.
miller. I’m afraid I’ve got to agree with hinj, though,
that they’re hardly fit reading for a young girl. (Then
with subtle flattery .) They’re all well enough, in their
way, for you who’re a man, but Think it over, and
see if you don’t agree with me.
richard (embarrassedly). Aw, I only did it because I
liked them — and I wanted her to face life as it is. She’s
so darned afraid of life — afraid of her Old Man — afraid of
people saying this or that about her — afraid of being in
love — afraid of everything. She’s even afraid to let me
kiss her. I thought, maybe, reading those things —
they’re beautiful, aren’t they, Pa ? — I thought they would
give her the spunk to lead her own life, and not be —
always thinking of being afraid.
4i
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller. I see. Well, I’m afraid she’s still afraid.
(He takes the letter from the table.) Here’s a letter from
her he said to give you.
(Richard takes the letter from him uncertainly , his
expression changing to one of apprehension.)
(Miller adds with a kindly smile .*) You better be pre-
pared for a bit of a blow. But never mind. There’s
lots of c*her fish in the sea.
( Richard is not listening to him , but staring at the
letter with a sort of fascinated dread. Miller
looks into his son’s face a second , then turns
away , troubled and embarrassed .)
Darn it ! I better go upstairs and get rigged out or I
never will get to that picnic.
(He moves awkwardly and self-consciously off through
the front parlour. Richard continues to stare
at the letter for a moment — then girds up his
courage and tears it open and begins to read
swiftly. As he reads , his face grows more and
more wounded and tragic , until at the end his
mouth draws down at the corners, as if he were
about to break into tears. With an effort he
forces them back and his face grows flushed
with humiliation and wronged anger.)
richard (blurts out to himself). The little coward ! I
hate her ! She can’t treat me like that ! I'll show her !
(At the sound of voices from the front parlour , he
quickly shoves the letter into the inside pocket
of his coat and does his best to appear calm
and indifferent , even attempting to whistle
“ Waiting at the Church .” But the whistle
4.2
AH, WILDERNESS !
peters out miserably as his mother , Lily and
Sid enter from the front parlour. They are
dressed in all the elaborate paraphernalia of
motoring at that period — linen dusters , veils.,
goggles , Sid in a snappy cap '. )
... rs. miller. Well, we’re about ready to start at last,
thank goodness ! Let’s hope no more callers are on the
way. What did that McComber want, Richard, do you
know ? Sid couldn’t tell us.
richard. You can search me. Ask Pa.
mrs. miller {immediately sensing something “ down ” in
his manner — going to him worriedly). Why, whatever’s
the matter with you, Richard ? You sound as if you’d
lost your last friend 1 What is it ?
richard ( desperately ). I — I don’t feel so well — my
stomach’s sick.
mrs. miller ( immediately all sympathy — smoothing his
hair back from his forehead). You poor boy ! What a
shame — on the Fourth, too, of all days ! ( Turning to the
others .) Maybe I better stay home with him, if he’s sick.
lily. Yes, I’ll stay, too.
richard (more desperately). No 1 You go, Ma !
I’m not really sick. I’ll be all right. You go. I want
to be alone 1 (Then, as a louder bang comes from in back
as Tommy sets off a cannon cracker , he jumps to his feetl)
Darn Tommy and his darned firecrackers ! You can’t
get any peace in this house with -that darned kid around !
Darn the Fourth of July, anyway l I wish we still be-
longed to England ! (He strides off in an indignant fury
of misery through the front parlour .)
43
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller (stares after him worriedly — then sighs philo-
sophically). Well, I guess he can’t be so very sick — after
that. (She shakes her head.) He’s a queer boy. Some-
times I can’t make head or tail of him.
miller (calls from the front door beyond the back parlour).
Come along, folks. Let’s get started.
sid. We’re coming, Nat.
(He and the two women move off through the front
parlour.)
Curtain
44
ACT TWO
scene. Dining-room of the Miller home — a little after six
o'clock in the evening of the same day .
The room is much too small for the medium-priced ,
formidable dining-room set , especially now when all the
leaves of the table are in. At left, toward rear , is a
double doorway with sliding doors and portieres leading
into the back parlour. In the rear wall, left, is the
door to the pantry. At the right of door is the china
closet with its display of the family cut glass and fancy
china. In the right wall are two windows looking out
on a side lawn. In front of the windows is a heavy,
ugly sideboard with three pieces of old silver on its top.
In the left wall, extreme front , is a screen door opening
on a side porch. A dark rug covers most of the floor.
The table, with a chair at each end, left and right,
three chairs on the far side, facing front, and two on
the near side, their backs to front , takes up most of the
available space. The walls are papered in a sombre
brown and dark-red design.
Mrs . Miller is supervising and helping the second
girl, Norah, in the setting of the table . Norah is a
clumsy, heavy-handed, heavy-footed, long-jawed , beam-
ingly good-natured young Irish girl — a “ greenhorn
mrs. miller. I really think you better put on the lights,
Norah, It’s getting so cloudy out, and this pesky room
is so dark, anyway.
45
AH, WILDERNESS !
NORAH. Yes, Mum. {She stretches awkwardly over
the table to reach the chandelier that is suspended from the
middle of the ceiling and manages to turn one light on — scorn-
fully!) Arrah, the contraption !
mrs. miller {worriedly). Careful !
norah. Careful as can be, Mum. {But in moving
around to reach the next bulb she jars heavily against the table.)
mrs. miller. There 1 I knew it ! I do wish you’d
watch !
norah {a flustered appeal in her voice.) Arrah, what
have I done wrong now ?
mrs. miller {draws a deep breath — then sighs helplessly).
Oh, nothing. Never mind the rest of the lights. You
might as well go out in the kitchen and wait until I ring.
norah ( relieved and cheerful again). Yes, Mum.
{She starts for the pantry.)
mrs. miller. But there’s one thing {Norah
turns apprehensively .) No, two things — things I’ve told
you over and over, but you always forget. Don’t pass
the plates on the wrong side at dinner to-night, and do be
careful not to let that pantry door slam behind you.
Now you will try to remember, won’t you ?
norah. Yes, Mum.
{She goes into the pantry and shuts the door behind
her with exaggerated care as Mrs. Miller
watches her apprehensively. Mrs. Miller sighs
and reaches up with difficulty and turns on
another of the four lights in the chandelier.
As she is doing so , Lily enters from the back
parlour!)
46
AH, WILDERNESS !
lily. Here, let me do that, Essie. I’m taller.
You’ll only strain yourself. (She quickly lights the other
two hulks.)
m.rs. miller (gratefully ). Thank you, Lily. It’s a
stretch for me, I’m getting so fat.
lily. But where’s Norah ? Why didn’t she ?
mrs. miller (exasperatedly). Oh, that girl ! Don’t
talk about her ! She’ll be the death of me ! She’s that
thick, you honestly wouldn’t believe it possible.
lily (smiling). Why, what did she do now ?
mrs. miller. Oh, nothing. She means all right.
lily. Anything else I can do, Essie ?
mrs. miller. Well, she’s got the table all wrong.
We’ll have to reset it. But you’re always helping me.
It isn’t fair to ask you — in your vacation. You need
your rest after teaching a pack of wild Indians of kids
all year.
lily ( beginning to help with the table). You know I love
to help. It makes me feel I’m some use in this house
instead of just sponging
mrs. miller (indignantly). Sponging ! You pay,
don’t you ?
lily. Almost nothing. And you and Nat only take
that little to make me feel better about living with you.
( Forcing a smile.) I don’t see how you stand me — having
a cranky old maid around all the time.
mrs. miller. What nonsense you talk 1 As if Nat
and I weren’t only too tickled to death to have you ! Lily
Miller, I’ve no patience with you when you go on like
47
AH, WILDERNESS !
that. We’ve been over this a thousand times before, and
still you go on ! Crazy, that’s what it is ! (She changes
the subject abruptly .) What time’s it getting to be ?
lily ( looking at her watch). Quarter past six.
mrs. miller. I do hope those men folks aren’t going
to be late for dinner. ( She sighs.) But I suppose with
that darned Sachem Club picnic it’s more likely than not.
( Lily looks worried , and sighs. Mrs. Miller gives her a
quick side glance.) I see you’ve got your new dress on.
lily ( embarrassedly ). Yes, I thought — if Sid’s taking
me to the fireworks — I ought to spruce up a little.
mrs. miller ( looking away). Hmm. (A pause — then
she says with an effort to be casual :) You mustn’t mind if
Sid comes home feeling a bit — gay. I expect Nat to —
and we’ll have to listen to all those old stories of his about
when he was a boy. You know what those picnics are,
and Sid’d be running into all his old friends.
lily ( agitatedly ). I don’t think he will — this time —
not after his promise.
mrs. miller ( avoiding looking at her). I know. But
men are weak. (Then quickly.) That was a good notion
of Nat’s, getting Sid the job on the Waterbury “ Stand-
ard.” All he ever needed was to get away from the rut
he was in here. He’s the kind that’s the victim of his
friends. He’s easily led — but there’s no real harm in
him, you know that. ( Lily keeps silent , her eyes downcast.
Mrs. Miller goes on meaningly.) He’s making good money
in Waterbury, too — thirty-five a week. He’s in a better
position to get married than he ever was.
lily (stiffly). Well, I hope he finds a woman who's
willing — though after he’s through with his betting on
48
AH, WILDERNESS !
horse-races, and dice, and playing Kelly pool, there won’t
be much left for a wife — even if there was nothing else
he spent his money on.
mrs. miller. Oh, he’d give up all that — for the right
woman. ( Suddenly she comes directly to the point.) Lily,
why don’t you change your mind and marry Sid and
reform him ? You love him and always have
lily (stiffly). I can’t love a man who drinks.
mrs. miller. You can’t fool me. I know darned
well you love him. And he loves you and always has.
lily. Never enough to. stop drinking for. (Cutting
off Mrs. Miller's reply.) No, it’s no good in your talking,
Essie. We’ve been over this a thousand times before
and I’ll always feel the same as long as Sid’s the same.
If he gave me proof he’d — but even then I don’t believe
I could. It’s sixteen years since I broke off our engage-
ment, but what made me break it off is as clear to me
to-day as it was then. It was what he’d be liable to do
now to anyone who married him — his taking up with
bad women.
mrs. miller (protests half-heartedly). But he’s always
sworn he got raked into that party and never had anything
to do with those harlots.
lily. Well, I don’t believe him — didn’t then and
don’t now. I do believe he didn’t deliberately plan to,
bujt Oh, it’s no good talking, Essie. What’s
done is done. But you know how much I like Sid —
in spite of everything. I know he was just born to be
what he is — irresponsible, never meaning to harm but
harming in spite of himself. But don’t talk to me about
marrying him — because I never could.
a.w. 49
D
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller (angrily). He’s a dumb fool — a stupid
dumb fool, that’s what he is 1
lily (quietly). No. He’s just Sid.
mrs. miller. It’s a shame for you — a measly shame
— you that would have made such a wonderful wife for
any man — that ought to have your own home and
children !
lily ( winces but -puts her arm around her affectionately —
gently). Now don’t you go feeling sorry for me. I won’t
have that. Here I am, thanks to your and Nat’s kind-
ness, with the best home in the world ; and as for the
children, I feel the same love for yours as ,if they were
mine, and I didn’t have the pain of bearing them. And
then there are all the boys and girls I teach every year,
I like to feel I’m a sort of second mother to them and
helping them to grow up to be good men and women.
So I don’t feel such a useless old maid, after all.
mrs. miller (kisses her impulsively — her voice husky).
You’re a good woman, Lily — too good for the rest of us.
(She turns away , wiping a tear furtively — then abruptly
changing the subject.) Good gracious, if I’m not for-
getting one of the most important things 1 I’ve got to
warn that Tommy against giving me away to Nat about
the fish. He knows, because I had to send him to
market for it, and he’s liable to burst out laughing
lily. Laughing about what ?
mrs. miller (guiltily ). Well, I’ve never told you,
because it seemed sort of a sneaking trick, but you know
how Nat carries on about not being able to eat bluefish.
lily. I know he says there’s a certain oil in it that
poisons him.
50
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller (chuckling). Poisons him, nothing 1
He’s been eating bluefish for years — only I tell him
each time it’s weakfish. We’re having it to-night — and
I’ve got to warn that young imp to keep his face straight.
lily (laughing). Aren’t you ashamed, Essie 1
mrs. miller. Not much, I’m not ! I like bluefish !
(She laughs .) Where is Tommy ? In the sitting-room ?
lily. No, Richard’s there alone. I think Tommy’s
out on the piazza with Mildred.
(Mrs. Miller hustles out through the back -parlour.
As soon as she is gone , the smile fades from
Lily's lips. Her face grows sad and she again
glances nervously at her watch. Richard
appears from the hack parlour , moving in an
aimless way. His face wears a set expression
of bitter gloom ; he exudes tragedy. For
Richard , after his first outburst of grief and
humiliation , has begun to take a masochistic
satisfaction in his great sorrow , especially in
the concern which it arouses in the family circle.
On seeing his aunt , he gives her a dark look
and turns and is about to stalk back toward the
sitting-room when she speaks to him pityingly .)
Feel any better, Richard ?
richard (sombrely). I’m all right, Aunt Lily. You
mustn’t worry about me.
lily ( going to him). But I do worry about you. I hate
to see you so upset.
richard. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
lily (puts her arm around him sympathetically). You
51
AH, WILDERNESS !
really mustn’t let yourself take it so seriously. You
know, something happens and things like that come
up, and we think there’s no hope
rxchard. Things like what come up ?
lily. What’s happened between you and Muriel.
richard (with disdain). Oh, her ! I wasn’t even
thinking about her. I was thinking about life.
lily. But then — if we really, really love — why, then
something else is bound to happen soon that changes
everything again, and it’s all as it was before the mis-
understanding, and everything works out all right in the
end. That’s the way it is with life.
richard (with a tragic sneer). Life ! Life is a joke !
And everything comes out all wrong in the end !
lily (a little shocked). Y ou mustn’t talk that way. But
I know you don’t mean it.
. richard. I do too mean it 1 You can have your silly
optimism, if you like, Aunt Lily. But don’t ask me to
be so blind. I’m a pessimist ! (Then with an air of cruel
cynicism .) As for Muriel, that’s all dead and past. I
was only kidding her, anyway, just to have a little fun,
and she took it seriously, like a fool. (He forces a cruel
smile to his lips.) You know what they say about women
and trolley cars, Aunt Lily : there’s always another one
along in a minute.
lily (really shocked this time). I don’t like you when
you say such horrible, cynical things. It isn’t nice.
richard. Nice ! That’s all you women think of 1
I’m proud to be a cynic. It’s the only thing you can be
when you really face life. I suppose you think I ought
5 2
AH, WILDERNESS !
to be heart-broken about Muriel — a little coward that’s
afraid to say her soul’s her own, and keeps tied to her
father’s apron strings ! Well, not for mine ! There’s
plenty of other fish in the sea ! (As he is finishing his
mother comes hack through the hack parlour .)
mrs. miller. Why, .hello. You here, Richard P
Getting hungry, I suppose ?
richard ( indignantly ). I’m not hungry a bit ! That’s
all you think of, Ma — food !
mrs. miller. Well, I must say I’ve never noticed you
to hang back at mealtimes. (To Lily.) What’s that he
was saying about fish in the sea ?
lily (smiling) . He says he’s through with Muriel now.
mrs. miller ( tartly — giving her son a rebuking look).
She’s through with him, he means ! The idea of your
sending a nice girl like her things out of those indecent
books !
( Deeply offended, Richard disdains to reply but
stalks woundedly to the screen door at left ,
front, and puts a hand on the knob.)
Where are you going ?
richard (quotes from “ Candida ” in a hollow voice).
“ Out, then, into the night with me 1 ”
(He stalks out, slamming the door behind him.)
mrs. miller (calls). Well, don’t you go far, ’cause
dinner’ll be ready in a minute, and I’m not coming run-
ning after you ! (She turns to Lily with a chuckle.)
Goodness, that boy ! He ought to be on the stage !
(She mimics.) “ Out — into the night ” — and it isn’t
even dark yet !' He got that out of one of those books,
53
AH, WILDERNESS !
I suppose. Do you know, I’m actually grateful to old
Dave McComber for putting an end to bis nonsense with
Muriel. I never did approve of Richard getting so
interested in girls. He’s not old enough for such silli-
ness. Why, seems to me it was only yesterday he was
still a baby. (She sighs — then matter-of-factly '. ) Well,
nothing to do now till those men turn up. No use
standing here like gawks. We might as well go in the
sitting-room and be comfortable.
lily (the nervous , worried note in her voice again). Yes,
we might as well. (They go out through the back -parlour .
They have no sooner disappeared than the screen door is opened
cautiously and Richard comes back in the room.)
richard (stands inside the door , looking after them —
quotes bitterly). “ They do not know the secret in the
poet’s heart.” (He comes nearer the table and surveys it ,
especially the cut-glass dish containing olives, with contempt
and mutters disdainfully.) Food I
(But the dish of olives seems to fascinate him and
presently he has approached nearer, and stealth-
ily lifts a couple and crams them into his mouth.
He is just reaching out for more when the pantry
door is opened slightly and Norah peers in.)
norah. Mister Dick, you thief, lave them olives
alone, or the missus’ll be swearing it was me at them 1
richard (draws back his hand as if he had been stung —
too flustered to be anything but! guilty boy for a second). I — I
wasn’t eating
norah. Oho, no, of course not, divil fear you, you
was only feeling their pulse ! (Then warningly.) Mind
what I’m saying now, or I’ll have to tell on you to protect
me good name l
54
AH, WILDERNESS !
(She draws back into the pantry , closing the door.
Richard stands , a prey to feelings of bitterest
humiliation and seething revolt against every-
one and everything. A low whistle comes from
just outside the porch door. He starts. Then
a masculine voice calls : “ Hey, Dick.” He
goes over to the screen door grumpily — then as
he recognizes the owner of the voice, his own
as he answers becomes respectful and admiring .)
richard. Oh, hello, Wint. Come on in.
(He opens the door and Wint Selby enters and stands
just inside the door. Selby is nineteen , a class-
mate of Arthur's at Tale. He is a typical,
good-looking college boy of the period, not the
athletic but the hell-raising sport type. He is
tall, blond, dressed in extreme collegiate cut.)
wint (as he enters — warningly, in a low tone). Keep it
quiet, Kid. I don’t want the folks to know I'm here.
Tell Art I want to see him a second — on the Q.T.
richard. Can’t. He’s up at the Rands’ — won’t be
home before ten, anyway.
wint (irritably). Damn ! I thought he’d be here for
dinner. (More irritably.) Hell, that gums the works
for fair !
richard (ingratiatingly). What is it, Wint ? Can’t
I help ?
wint (gives him an appraising glance). I might tell you*
if you can keep your face shut.
richard. I can.
wint. Well, I ran into a couple of swift babies from
55
AH, WILDERNESS !
New Haven this after, and I dated them up for to-night,
thinking I could catch Art. But now it’s too late to get
anyone else and I’ll have to pass it up. I’m nearly broke
and I can’t afford to blow them both to drinks.
Richard (with shy eagerness'). I’ve got eleven dollars
saved up. I could loan you some.
wint (surveys him appreciatively). Say, you’re a good
sport. ( Then shaking his head'. ) Nix, Kid, I don’t want
to borrow your money. (Then getting an ideal) But
say, have you got anything on for to-night ?
RICHARD. No.
wint. Want to come along with me ? (Then quickly.)
I’m not trying to lead you astray, understand. But it’ll
be a help if you would just sit around with Belle and feed
her a few drinks while I’m off with Edith. (He winks.)
See what I mean ? You don’t have to do anything, not
even take a glass of beer — unless you want to.
richard (boastfully). Aw, what do you think I am — a
rube ?
wint. You mean you’re game for anything that’s
doing ?
richard. Sure I am !
wint. Ever been out with any girls — I mean, real
swift ones that there’s something doing with, not these
dead Janes around here ?
richard (lies boldly). Aw, what do you think ?
Sure I have 1
wint. Ever drink anything besides sodas ?
richard. Sure. Lots of times. Beer and sloe-gin
fizz and — Manhattans.
56
AH, WILDERNESS !
wint ( 'impressed ). Hell, you know more than I
thought. ( Then considering .) Can you fix it so your
folks won’t get wise ? I don’t want your old man com-
ing after me. You can get back by half-past ten or
eleven, though, all right. Think you can cook up some
lie to cover that ? (As Richard hesitates — encouraging
him.) Ought to be easy — on the Fourth.
richard. Sure. Don’t worry about that.
wint. But you’ve got to keep your face closed about
this, you hear ? — to Art and everybody else. I tell you
straight, I wouldn’t ask you to come if I wasn’t in a hole
— and if I didn’t know you were coming down to Yale
next year, and didn’t think you’re giving me the straight
goods about having been around before. I don’t want
to lead you astray.
richard (scornfully). Aw, I told you that was silly.
wint. Well, you be at the Pleasant Beach Hotel at
half-past nine then. Come in the back room. And
don’t forget to grab some cloves to take the booze off
your breath.
richard. Aw, I know what to do.
wint. See you later, then. (He starts out and is just
about to close the door when he thinks of something .) And
say, I’ll say you’re a Harvard freshman, and you back me
up. They don’t know a damn thing about Harvard.
I don’t want them thinking I’m travelling around with
any high-school kid.
richard. Sure. That’s easy.
wint. So long, then. You better beat it right after
your dinner while you’ve got a chance, and hang around
until it’s time. Watch your step, Kid.
S 7
AH, WILDERNESS !
richard. So long. (The door closes behind Wint.
Richard stands for a moment , a look of bitter , defiant rebellion
coming over his face , and mutters to himself.) I’ll show her
she can’t treat me the way she’s done ! I’ll show them
all !
(Then the front door is heard slamming , and a
moment later Tommy rushes in from the back
parlourl)
tommy. Where’s Ma ?
richard (surlily). In the sitting-room. Where did
you think, Bonehead ?
tommy. Pa and Uncle Sid are coming. Mid and I
saw them from the front piazza. Gee, I’m glad. I’m
awful hungry, ain’t you ? (He rushes out through the back
■ parlour , calling :) Ma ! They’re coming ! Let’s have
dinner quick ! (A moment later Mrs. Miller appears from
the back parlour accompanied by Tommy , who keeps insisting
urgently :) Gee, but I’m awful hungry, Ma !
mrs. miller. I know. You always are. You’ve
got a tape-worm, that’s what I think.
tommy. Have we got lobsters, Ma ? Gee, I love
lobsters.
mrs. miller. Yes, we’ve got lobsters. And fish.
You remember what I told you about that fish. (He
snickers .) Now, do be quiet, Tommy ! ( Then with a
teasing smile at Richard :) Well, I’m glad to see you’ve
got back out of the night, Richard.
(He scowls and turns his back on her. Lily appears
through the back parlour , nervous and appre-
hensive. As she does so, from the front yard
58
AH, WILDERNESS !
Sid's voice is heard singing “ Poor John ! ”
Mrs. Miller shakes her head forebodingly —
but, so great is the comic spell for her even in her
brother's voice , a humorous smile hovers at the
comers of her lips.)
Mmm ! Mmm ! Lily, I’m afraid
lily (bitterly). Yes, I might have known.
(Mildred runs in through the back parlour. She is
laughing to herself a bit shamefacedly. She
rushes to her mother .)
Mildred. Ma, Uncle Sid’s (She whispers in
her ear.)
mrs. miller. Never mind ! You shouldn’t notice
such things — at your age ! And don’t you encourage
him by laughing at his foolishness, you hear !
tommy. You needn’t whisper, Mid. Think I don’t
know ? Uncle Sid’s soused again.
mrs. miller (shakes him by the arm indignantly). You
be quiet ! Did I ever ! You’re getting too smart !
(Gives him a push.) Go to your place and sit right
down and not another word out of you 1
tommy (aggrieved — rubbing his arm as he goes to his
place). Aw, Ma !
mrs. miller. And you sit down, Richard and Mil-
dred. You better, too, Lily. We’ll get him right in
here and get some food in him. He’ll be all right then.
(Richard, preserving the pose of the bitter , dis-
illusioned pessimist , sits down in his place in
the chair at right of the two whose backs face
59
AH, WILDERNESS !
front. Mildred takes the other chair facing
back , at his left. Tommy has already slid into
the end chair at right of those at the rear of
table facing front. Lily sits in the one of those
at left , by the head of the table, leaving the
middle one vacant. While they are
doing this, the front screen door is heard slam-
ming and Miller and Sid's laughing voices ,
raised as they come in and for a moment after,
then suddenly cautiously lowered. Mrs, Miller
goes to the entrance to the back -parlour and calls
peremptorily.)
You come right in here ! Don’t stop to wash up or
anything. Dinner’s coming right on the table.
miller’s voice (jovially). All right, Essie. Here we
are ! Here we are !
mrs. miller (goes to pantry door, opens it and calls). All
right, Norah. You can bring in the soup,
( She comes back to the back-parlour entrance just as
Miller enters. _ He isn't drunk by any means.
He is just mellow and benignly ripened. His
face is one large, smiling, happy beam of utter
appreciation of life. All’s right with the
world, so satisfyingly right that he becomes
sentimentally moved even to think of it.)
miller. Here we are, Essie ! Right on the dot 1
Here we are 1
(He pulls her to him and gives her a smacking kiss on
the ear as she jerks her head away. Mildred
and Tommy giggle. Richard holds rigidly
aloof and disdainful, his brooding gaze fixed
on his plate. Lily forces a smile.)
6 o
AH, WILDERNESS !
MRS. miller (fulling away — embarrassedly , almost blush-
ing). Don’t, you Crazy ! (Then recovering herself ' —
tartly .) So I see, you’re here ! And if I didn’t, you’ve
told me four times already 1
miller (beamingly). Now, Essie, don’t be critical.
Don’t be carpingly critical. Good news can stand
repeating, can’t it ? ’Course it can !
(He slaps her jovially on her fat buttocks. Tommy
and Mildred roar with glee. And Norah ,
who has just entered from the pantry with a
huge tureen of soup in her hands , almost drops
it as she explodes in a merry guffaw .)
mrs. miller (scandalized). Nat ! Aren’t you
ashamed !
miller. Couldn’t resist it ! Just simply couldn’t
resist it 1
(Norah, still standing with the soup tureen held out
stiffly in front of her , again guffaws.)
mrs. miller (turns on her with outraged indignation).
Norah ! Bring that soup here this minute ! (She stalks
with stiff dignity toward her place at the foot of the table ,
rightl)
norah (guiltily). Yes, Mum. (She brings the soup
around the head of the table , passing Miller.)
miller (jovially). Why, hello, Norah !
mrs. miller. Nat ! (She sits down stiffly at the foot
of the table.)
norah (rebuking him familiarly). Arrah now, don’t
be making me laugh and getting me into trouble !
61
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller. Norah !
NORAH ( a bit resentfully). Yes, Mum. Here I am.
(She sets the soup tureen down with a thud in front of Mrs ,
Miller and passes around the other side , squeezing with
difficulty between the china closet and the backs of chairs at
the rear of the table . )
MRS. miller. Tommy ! Stop spinning your napkin
ring 1 How often have I got to tell you ? Mildred 1
Sit up straight in your chair ! Do you want to grow
up a humpback ? Richard ! Take your elbows off the
table !
miller (coming to his place at the head of the table , rub-
bing his hands together genially). Well, well, well. Well,
well, well. It’s good to be home again.
(Norah exits into the pantry and lets the door slam
with a bang behind her.)
mrs. miller (Jumps). Oh ! (Then exasperatedly.)
Nat, I do wish you wouldn’t encourage that stupid girl
by talking to her, when I’m doing my best to train
miller (beamingly). All right, Essie. Your word is
law ! (Then laughingly.) We did have the darndest
fun to-day 1 And Sid was the life of that picnic ! You
ought to have heard him 1 Honestly, he had that crowd
just rolling on the ground and splitting their sides ! He
ought to be on the stage.
mrs. miller (as Norah comes back with a dish of saltines
— begins ladling soup into the stack of plates before her).
He ought to be at this table eating something to sober
him up, that’s what he ought to be ! (She calls.) Sid 1
You come right in here 1 (Then to Norah t handing her a
AH, WILDERNESS !
soup plate .) Here, Norah. (Norah begins passing soup.)
Sit down, Nat, for goodness’ sakes. Start eating, every-
body. Don’t wait for me. You know I’ve given up
soup.
miller (sits down but bends forward to call to his wife in a
confidential tone). Essie — Sid’s sort of embarrassed about
coming — I mean I’m afraid he’s a little bit — not too
much, you understand — but he met such a lot of friends
and — well, you know, don’t be hard on him. Fourth of
July is like Christmas — comes but once a year. Don’t
pretend to notice, eh ? And don’t you kids, you hear !
And don’t you, Lily. He’s scared of you.
lily (with stiff meekness). Very well, Nat.
miller ( beaming again — calls). All right, Sid. The
coast’s clear. (He begins to absorb his soup ravenously .)
Good soup, Essie ! Good soup !
( A moment later Sid makes his entrance from the
back parlour. He is in a condition that can
best be described as blurry. His movements
have a hazy uncertainty about them. His
shiny fat face is one broad , blurred , Puckish ,
naughty-boy grin ; his eyes have a blurred ,
wondering vagueness. As he enters he makes
a solemnly intense effort to appear casual and
dead , cold sober. He waves his hand aim-
lessly and speaks with a silly gravity.)
sid. Good evening. (They all answer “ Good even-
ing,” their eyes on their plates. He makes his way vaguely
toward his place , continuing his grave effort at conversation .)
Beautiful evening. I never remember seeing — more
beautiful sunset. (He bumps vaguely into Lily's chair as
63
AH, WILDERNESS !
he attempts to pass behind her— immediately he is all grave
politeness .) Sorry — sorry, Lily — deeply sorry.
lily (her eyes on her plate — stiffly). It’s all right.
sid (manages to get into his chair at last—~mutters to him-
self). Wha’ was I sayin’ ? Oh, sunsets. But why butt
in ? Hasn’t sun— perfect right to set ? Mind y’r own
business. (He pauses thoughtfully , considering this — then
looks around from face to face , fixing each with a vague ,
blurred , wondering look , as if some deep puzzle were con-
fronting him. Then suddenly he grins mistily and nods with
satisfaction.) And there you are ! Am I right ?
miller (humouring him). Right.
sid. Right 1 (He is silent, studying his soup plate , as
if it were some strange enigma. Finally he looks up and
regards his sister and asks with wondering amazement .)
Soup ?
MRS. MILLER. Of course, it’s soup. What did you
think it was ? And you hurry up and eat it.
sid (again regards his soup with astonishment). Well !
(Then suddenly?) Well, all right then ! Soup be it !
(He picks up his spoon and begins to eat , but after two tries in
which he finds it difficult to locate his mouth , he addresses the
spoon plaintively). Spoon, is this any way to treat a pa! ?
(Then suddenly comically angry , putting the spoon down with
a bang) Down with spoons 1 (He raises his soup plate
and declaims:) “ We’ll drink to the dead already, and
hurrah for the next who dies.” (Bowing solemnly to right
and left) Your good health, ladies and gents.
(He starts drinking the soup. Miller guffaws and
Mildred and Tommy ggglt'. Even Richard
64
AH, WILDERNESS !
forgets his melancholy and snickers , and Mrs.
Miller conceals a smile. Only Lily remains
stiff and silent )
mrs. miller (with forced severity). Sid !
sid (peers at her muzzily, lowering the soup plate a little
from his lips). Eh ?
MRS. MILLER. Oh, nothing. Never mind.
sid (solemnly offended). Are you— publicly rebuking
me before assembled ? Isn’t soup liquid ? Aren t
liquids drunk ? (Then considering this to himself ) What
if they are drunk ? It’s a good man’s failing. (He
again peers mistily about at the company) Am I right or
wrong ?
mrs. miller. Hurry up and finish your soup, and
stop talking nonsense !
sid ( turning to her — again offendedly . Oh, no, Essie,,
if I ever so far forget myself as to drink a leg of lamb,
then you might have some — excuse for Just think
of waste effort eating soup with spoons — fifty gruelling
lifts per plate — billions of soup-eaters on globe — why,
it’s simply staggering ! (Then darkly to himself) No
more spoons for me ! If I want to develop my biceps,
I’ll buy Sandow Exerciser ! (He drinks the rest of his
soup in a gulp and beams around at the company , suddenly
all happiness again) Am I right, folks ?
miller (who has been choking with laughter). Haw,
haw ! You’re right, Sid.
sid (peers at him blurredly and shakes his head sadly).
Poor old Nat ! Always' wrong — but heart of gold,
heart of purest gold. And drunk again, I regret to
a.w. 65 E
AH, WILDERNESS !
note. Sister, my heart bleeds for you and your poor
fatherless chicks !
mrs. miller (restraining a giggle — severely). Sid! Do
shut up for a minute ! Pass me your soup plates,
everybody. If we wait for that girl to take them, we’ll
be here all night.
(They all pass their plates , which Mrs. Miller stacks
up and then puts on the sideboard. As she
is doing this , Nor ah appears from the pantry
with a platter of broiled fish. She is just
about to place these before Miller when Sid
catches her eye mistily and rises to his feet ,
making her a deep , uncertain bowl)
sid (rapidly). Ah, Sight for Sore Eyes, my beautiful
Macushla, my star-eyed Mavourneen
MRS. MILLER. Sid !
no rah (immensely pleased — gives him an arch., flirtatious
glance). Ah sure. Mister Sid, it’s you that have kissed
the Blarney Stone, when you’ve a drop taken !
mrs. miller (outraged). Norah ! Put down that
fish 1
norah (Jlusteredly ). Yes, Mum. (She attempts to put
the fish down hastily before Miller , but her eyes are fisted
nervously on Mrs. Miller and she gives Miller a nasty swipe
on the side of the head with the edge of the dish.)
miller. Ouch !
(The children , even Richard , explode into laughter.)
norah (almost lets the dish fall). Oh, glory be to God !
Is it hurted you are ?
66
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller {rubbing his head — good-naturedly). No, no
harm done. Only careful, Norah, careful.
norah (_ gratefully ). Yes, sorr. ( She thumps down the
dish in front of him with a sigh of relief .)
sid ( who is still standing — with drunken gravity). Care-
ful, Mavourneen, careful ! You might have hit him
some place besides the head. Always aim at his head,
remember — so as not to worry us.
( Again the children explode. Also Norah. Even
Lily suddenly lets out an hysterical giggle and
is furious with herself for doing so.)
lily. I’m so sorry, Nat. I didn’t mean to laugh.
(Turning on Sid furiously .) Will you please sit do^n and
stop making a fool of yourself 1
(Sid gives her a hurt , mournful look and then sinks
meekly down on his chair l)
norah (grinning cheerfully , gives Lily a reassuring pat
on the back). Ah, Miss Lily, don’t mind him. He’s
only under the influence. Sure, there’s no harm in
him at all.
mrs. miller. Norah !
(Norah exits hastily into the pantry , letting the door
slam with a crash behind her. There is silence
for a moment as 'Miller serves the fish and it
is passed around. Norah comes back with the
vegetables and disappears again , and these are
dished out.)
miller (is about to take his first bite — stops suddenly and
asks his wife). This isn’t, by any chance, bluefish, is
it, my dear ?
mrs. miller (with a warning glance at Tommy). Of
67
AH, WILDERNESS !
course not. You know we never have bluefish, on
account of you.
miller ( addressing the table novo with the gravity of a
man confessing his strange peculiarities'). Yes, I regret to
say, there’s a certain peculiar oil in bluefish that invariably
poisons me.
(At this , Tommy cannot stand it any more but explodes
into laughter. Mrs. Miller , after a helpless
glance at him , follows suit ; then Lily goes off
into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter , and
Richard and Mildred are caught in the con-
tagion. Miller looks around at them with a
weak smile , his dignity now ruffed a bit.)
Well, I must say I don’t see what’s so darned funny
about my being poisoned.
sid (peers around him — then with drunken cunning).
Aha ! Nat, I suspect — plot ! This fish looks blue to
me — very blue — in fact despondent, desperate, and
(He points his fork dramatically , at Mrs. Miller .) See how
guilty she looks — a ver — veritable Lucretia Georgia !
Can it be this woman has been slowly poisoning you all
these years ? And how well — you’ve stood it ! What
iron constitution ! Even now, when you are invariably
at death’s door, I can’t believe
(Everyone goes off into uncontrollable laughterl)
miller (grumpily). Oh, give us a rest, you darned
fool ! A joke’s a joke, but (He addresses his wife
in a wounded tone.) Is this true, Essie ?
mrs. miller ( wiping the tears from her eyes — defiantly).
Yes, it is true, if you must know, and you’d never have
suspected it, if it weren’t for that darned Tommy, and
68
AH, WILDERNESS !
Sid poking his nose in. You’ve eaten bluefish for
years and thrived on it and it’s all nonsense about that
peculiar oil.
miller ( deeply offended). Kindly allow me to know
my own constitution 1 Now I think of it, I’ve felt
upset afterwards every damned time we’ve had fish !
(He pushes his plate away from him with proud renunciation .)
I can’t eat this.
mrs. miller ( 'insultingly matter-of-fact). Well, don’t
then. There’s lots of lobster coming and you can fill
up on that.
(Richard suddenly bursts out laughing again.)
miller (turns to him caustically). You seem in a
merry mood, Richard. I thought you were the original
of the Heart Bowed Down to-day.
sid (with mock condolence). Never mind, Dick. Let
them — scoff ! What can they understand about girls
whose hair sizzchels, whose lips are fireworks, whose
eyes are red-hot sparks'
Mildred (laughing). Is that what he wrote to Muriel ?
(Turning to her brother .) You silly goat, you !
richard (surlily). Aw, shut up, Mid. What do I
care about her ? I’ll show all of you how much I care !
mrs. miller. Pass your plates as soon as you’re
through, everybody. I’ve rung for the lobster. And
that’s all. You don’t get any dessert or tea after lobster,
you know.
(Norah appears bearing a platter of cold boiled
lobsters which she sets before Miller , and
disappears^)
69
AH, WILDERNESS !
tommy. Gee, I love lobster !
( Miller -puts one on each plate , and they are passed
around and everyone starts in pulling the
cracked shells apart .)
miller (feeling more cheerful after a couple of mouthfuls
— determining to give the conversation another turn , says to
his daughter ). Have a good time at the beach, Mildred ?
mildred. Oh, fine, Pa, thanks. The water was
wonderful and warm.
miller. Swim far ?
mildred. Yes, for me. But that isn’t so awful far.
miller. Well, you ought to be a good swimmer, if
you take after me. I used to be a regular water-rat
when I was a boy. I’ll have to go down to the beach
with you one of these days — though I’d be rusty, not
having been in in all these years. (The reminiscent look
comes into his eyes of one about to embark on an oft-told tale
of childhood adventure. ) You know, speaking of swim-
ming, I never go down to that beach but what it calls to
mind the day I and Red Sisk went in swimming there
and I saved his life.
(By this time the family are beginning to exchange
amused , guilty glances. They all know what
is coming .)
sid ( with a sly , blurry wink around). Ha ! Now we
— have it again !
miller ( turning on him). Have what ?
sid. Nothing — go on with your swimming — don’t
mind me.
70
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller {glares at him — but immediately is overcome by
the reminiscent mood again). Red Sisk — his father kept a
blacksmith shop where the Union Market is now — we
kids called him Red because he had the darndest reddest
crop of hair
sid (as if he were talking to his plate). Remarkable !
— the curious imagination — of little children.
mrs. miller (as she sees Miller about to explode — inter-
poses tactfully). Sid ! Eat your lobster and shut up !
Go on, Nat.
miller (gives Sid a withering look — then is off again).
Well, as I was saying, Red and I went swimming that
day. Must have been — let me see — Red was fourteen,
bigger and older than me, I was only twelve — forty-
five years ago — wasn’t a single house down there then
— but there was a stake out where the whistling buoy is
now, about a mile out.
(Tommy, who has been having difficulty restraining
himself , lets out a stifled giggle. Miller bends
a frowning gaze on himl)
One more sound out of you, young man, and you’ll
leave the table !
mrs. miller (quickly interposing , trying to stave off the
story). Do eat your lobster, Nat. You didn’t have any
fish, you know.
miller (not liking the reminder — pettishly). Well, if
I’m going to be interrupted every second anyway
(He turns to his lobster and chews in silence for a moment . )
mrs. miller (trying to switch the subject'). How’s
Anne’s mother’s rheumatism, Mildred ?
71
AH, WILDERNESS !
mildred. Oh, she’s much better, Ma. She was in
wading to-day. She says salt water’s the only thing that
really helps her bunion.
mrs. miller. Mildred ! Where are your manners ?
At the table’s no place to speak of
miller (j fallen into the reminiscent obsession again).
Well, as I was saying, there was I and Red, and he dared
me to race him out to the stake and back. Well, I didn’t
let anyone dare me in those days. I was a spunky kid.
So I said all right and we started out. We swam and
swam and were pretty evenly matched ; though, as
I’ve said, he was bigger and older than me, but finally I
drew ahead. I was going along easy, with lots in reserve,
not a bit tired, when suddenly I heard a sort of gasp
from behind me — like this — “ help ! ” (He imitates.
Everyone's eyes are firmly fixed on their -plates, except Sid' si)
And I turned and there was Red, his face all pinched and
white, and he says weakly : “ Help, Nat ! I got a
cramp in my leg ! ” Well, I don’t mind telling you I
got mighty scared. I didn’t know what to do.. Then
suddenly I thought of the pile. If I could pull him to
that, I could hang on to him till someone’d notice us.
But the pile was still — well, I calculate it must have been
two hundred feet away.
sid. Two hundred and fifty !
miller (in confusion). What’s that ?
'sid. Two hundred and fifty ! I’ve taken down the
distance every time you’ve saved Red’s life for thirty
years and the mean average to that pile is two hundred
and fifty feet ! (There is a burst of laughter from around
the table. Sid continues complaininglyl) Why didn’t you
72
AH, WILDERNESS !
let that Red droWn, anyway, Nat ? I never knew him
but I know I’d never have liked him.
miller ( really hurt , forces a feeble smile to his lips and
pretends to be a good sport about it). Well, guess you’re
right, Sid. Guess I have told that one too many times
and bored everyone. But it’s a good true story for kids
because it illustrates the danger of being foolhardy in
the water
mrs. miller ( sensing the hurt in his tone , comes to his
rescue ). Of course it’s a good story — and you tell it
whenever you’ve a mind to. And you, Sid, if you were
in any responsible state, I’d give you a good piece of my
mind for teasing Nat like that.
miller (with a sad , self-pitying smile at his wife). Get-
ting old, I guess, Mother — getting to repeat myself.
Someone ought to stop me.
mrs. miller. No such thing ! You’re as young as
you ever were. ( She turns on Sid again angrily.) You
eat your lobster and maybe it’ll keep your mouth shut 1
sin (after a few chews — irrepressibly). Lobster! Did
you know, Tommy, your Uncle Sid is the man invented
lobster ? Fact ! One day — when I was building the
Pyramids — took a day off and just dashed off lobster.
He was bigger’n’ older than me and he had the darndest
reddest crop of hair but I dashed him off just the same !
Am I right, Nat ? (Then suddenly in the tones of a side-
show barker.) Ladies and Gents
mrs. miller. Mercy sakes ! Can’t you shut up ?
sid. In this cage you see the lobster. You will not
believe me, ladies and gents, but it’s a fact that this
interesting bivalve only makes love to his mate once in
73
AH, WILDERNESS !
every thousand years — but, dearie me, how he does
enjoy it !
(The children roar . Lily and Mrs. Miller laugh in
spite of themselves — then look embarrassed.
Miller guff aws — then suddenly grows shocked )
miller. Careful, Sid, careful. Remember you’re at
home.
tommy ( suddenly in a hoarse whisper to his mother , with
an awed glance of admiration at his uncle). Ma ! Look
at him ! He’s eating that claw, shells and all !
mrs. miller (horrified). Sid, do you want to kill
yourself ? Take it away from him, Lily !
sid (with great dignity). But I prefer the shells. All
famous epicures prefer the shells — to the less delicate,
coarser meat. It’s the same with clams. Unless I eat
the shells there is a certain, peculiar oil that invariably
poisons Am I right, Nat ?
miller {good-naturedly ). You seem to be getting a
lot of fun kidding me. Go ahead, then. I don’t mind.
mrs. miller. He better go right up to bed for a
while, that’s what he better do.
sid (considering this owlishly). Bed ? Yes, maybe
you’re right. (He gets to his feet) I am not at all well
— in very delicate condition — we are praying for a boy.
Am I right, Nat ? Nat, I kept telling you all day I was
in delicate condition and yet you kept forcing demon
chowder on me, although you knew full well — even if
you were full — that there is a certain, peculiar oil in
chowder that invariably (They are again all laugh-
ing — Lily, hysterically)
74
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller. Will you get to bed, you idiot !
sid ( mutters graciously). Immediately — if not sooner.
(He turns to -pass behind Lily , then stops , staring down at her l)
But wait. There is still a duty I must perform. No day
is complete without it. Lily, answer once and for all,
will you marry me ?
lily (with an hysterical giggle). No, I won’t — never 1
sid (nodding his head). Right ! And perhaps it’s all
for the best. For how could I forget the pre — precepts
taught me at mother’s dying knee. “ Sidney,” she said,
“ never marry a woman who drinks ! Lips that touch
liquor shall never touch yours ! ” ( Gazing at her mourn-
fully .) Too bad ! So fine a woman once — and now
such a slave to rum ! (Turning to Miller.) What can
we do to save her, Nat ? (In a hoarse , confidential whis-
per .) Better put her in institution where she’ll be
removed from temptation ! The mere smell of it seems
to drive her frantic !
mrs. miller (struggling with her laughter). You leave
Lily alone, and go to bed !
sid. Right ! (He comes around behind Lily's chair
and moves toward the entrance to the back parlour — then
suddenly turns and says with a bow.) Good night, ladies
— and gents. We will meet — by and by ! (He gives
an imitation of a Salvation Army drum) Boom ! Boom !
Boom ! Come and be saved, Brothers ! (He starts to
sing the old Army hymn)
“ In the sweet
By and by
We will meet on that beautiful shore.”
(He turns and marches solemnly out parlour ,
singing)
75
AH, WILDERNESS !
“ Work and pray
While you may.
We ■will meet in the sky by and by.”
( Miller and his wife and the children are all roaring
with laughter. Lily giggles hysterically .)
miller ( subsiding at last). Haw, haw. He’s a case, if
ever there was one ! Darned if you can help laughing
at him — even when he’s poking fun at you !
mrs. miller. Goodness, but he’s a caution ! Oh,
my sides ache, I declare ! I was trying so hard not to
— but you can’t help it, he’s so silly ! But I suppose
we really shouldn’t. It only encourages him. But, my
lands 1
lily ( suddenly gets up from her chair and stands rigidly ,
her face working— jerkily). That’s just it — you shouldn’t
— even I laughed — it does encourage — that’s been his
downfall — everyone always laughing, everyone always
saying what a card he is, what a case, what a caution,
so funny — and he’s gone on — and we’re all responsible
— making it easy for him — we’re all to blame — and all
we do is laugh !
miller (worriedly). Now, Lily, now, you mustn’t
take on so. It isn’t as serious as all that.
lily (bitterly). Maybe — it is — to me. Or was —
once. (Then contritely.) I’m sorry, Nat. I’m sorry,
Essie. I didn’t mean to — I’m not feeling myself to-
night. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go in the front parlour
and lie down on the sofa' awhile.
mrs. miller. Of course, Lily. You do whatever
you’ve a mind to.
(Lily goes out .)
76
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( frowning — a little shamefaced). Hmm. I
suppose she’s right. Never knew Lily to come out with
things that way before. Anything special happened,
Essie ?
mrs. miller. Nothing I know — except he’d promised
to take her to the fireworks.
miller. That’s so. Well, supposing I take her. I
don’t want her to feel disappointed.
mrs. miller ( shaking her head). Wild horses couldn’t
drag her there now.
miller. Hmm. I thought she’d got completely over
her foolishness about him long ago.
mrs. miller. She never will.
miller. She’d better. He’s got fired out of that
Waterbury job — told me at the picnic after , he’d got
enough Dutch courage in him.
mrs. miller. Oh, dear ! Isn’t he the fool !
miller. I knew something was wrong when he came
home. Well, I’ll find a place for him on my paper
again, of course. He always was the best news-getter
this town ever had. But I’ll tell him he’s got to stop
his damn nonsense.
mrs. miller (doubtfully). Yes.
miller. Well, no use sitting here mourning over
spilt milk.
(He gets up , and Richard , Mildred , Tommy and
Mrs. Miller follow his example , the children
quiet and a bit awed)
77
AH, WILDERNESS !
You kids go out in the yard and try to keep quiet for a
while, so’s your Uncle Sid’ll get to sleep and your Aunt
Lily can rest.
tommy ( mournfully ). Ain’t we going to set off the
sky rockets and Roman candles, Pa ?
miller. Later, Son, later. It isn’t dark enough for
them yet anyway.
mildred. Come on, Tommy. I’ll see he keeps
quiet, Pa.
miller. That’s a good girl.
( Mildred and Tommy go out through the screen door.
Richard remains standing , sunk in bitter ,
gloomy thoughts.)
(Miller glances at him — then irritably.) Well, Melancholy
Dane, what are you doing ?
richard (darkly). I’m going out — for a while.
(Then suddenly .) Do you know what I think ? It’s
Aunt Lily’s fault, Uncle Sid’s going to ruin. It’s all
because he loves her, and she keeps him dangling after
her, and eggs him on and ruins his life — like all women
love to ruin men’s lives ! I don’t blame him for drink-
ing himself to death ! What does he care if he dies,
after the way she’s treated him ! I’d do the same thing
myself if I were in his boots !
mrs. miller (indignantly). Richard ! You stop that
talk !
RICHARD (quotes bitterly).
Drink ! for you-know not whence you come nor why.
Drink 1 for you know not why you go nor where ! ”
78
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( losing his temper — harshly). Listen here,
young man ! I’ve had about all I can stand of your
nonsense for one day ! You’re growing a lot too big
for your size, seems to me ! You keep that damn fool
talk to yourself, you hear me — or you’re going to regret
it ! Mind, now 1 (He strides angrily away through the
back parlour .)
mrs. miller (still indignant). Richard, I’m ashamed
of you, that’s what I am. r
(She follows her husband. Richard stands for a
second , bitter , humiliated , wronged , even his
father turned enemy , his face growing more
and more rebellious. Then he forces a scornful
smile to his lips.)
RICHARD. Aw, what the hell do I care ? I’ll show
them ! (He turns and goes out the screen door.)
Curtain
79
ACT THREE
SCENE ONE
scene. The back room of a bar in a small hotel — a small,
dingy room, dimly lighted by two fly-specked globes in a
fly-specked gilt chandelier suspended from the middle of
the ceiling. At left , front, is the swinging door leading
to the bar. At rear of door, against the wall, is a
nickel-in-the-slot player-piano. In the rear wall, right,
is a door leading to the “ Family Entrance ” and the
stairway to the upstairs rooms. In the middle of the
right wall is a window with closed shutters. Three
tables with stained tops, four chairs around each table,
are placed at centre, front, at right, toward rear, and at
rear, centre. A brass cuspidor is on the floor by each
table. The floor is unswept , littered with cigarette and
cigar-butts. The hideous saffron-coloured wallpaper is
blotched and spotted.
It is about io o'clock the same night. Richard and
Belle are discovered sitting at the table at centre , Belle
at left of it, Richard in the next chair at the middle of
table, rear, facing front.
Belle is twenty, a rather pretty peroxide blonde , a
typical college “ tart ” of the period, and of the cheaper
variety, dressed with tawdry flashiness. But she is a
fairly recent recruit to the ranks, and is still a bit
remorseful behind her make-up and defiantly careless
manner.
Belle has an empty gin-rickey glass before her,
80
AH, WILDERNESS !
Richard a half-empty glass of beer . He looks horribly
timid , embarrassed and guilty, but at the same time
thrilled and proud of at last mingling with the pace that
kills.
The player-piano is grinding out “ Bedelia .” The
Bartender , a stocky young Irishman with a foxily cun-
ning , stupid face and a cynically wise grin , stands just
inside the bar entrance , watching them over the swinging
door.
belle (with an impatient glance at her escort — rattling the
ice in her empty glass'). Drink up your beer, why don’t
you ? It’s getting flat.
richard (e mbarrassedly). I let it get that way on
purpose. I like it better when it’s flat.
( But he hastily gulps down the rest of his glass , as if
it were some nasty-tasting medicine. The Bar-
tender chuckles audibly. Belle glances at him '. )
belle ( nodding at the player-piano scornfully). Say,
George, is “ Bedelia ” the latest to hit this hick burg ?
Well, it’s only a couple of years old ! You’ll catch up in
time ! Why don’t you get a new roll for that old box ?
bartender (with a grin). Complain to the boss, not
me. We’re not used to having Candy Kiddoes like you
around — or maybe we’d get up to date,
belle ( with a professionally arch grin at him). Don’t
kid me, please. I can’t bear it. ( Then she sings to the
music from the piano, her eyes now on Richard.) “ Bedelia,
I’d like to feel yer.” ( The Bartender laughs. She smirks
at Richard.) Ever hear those words to it, Kid ?
richard ( who has heard them but is shocked at hearing a
girl say them — putting on a blase air). Sure, lots of times.
That’s old.
A.W.
81
F
AH, WILDERNESS !
belle ( edging her chair closer and 'putting a hand over one
oj his). Then why don’t you act as if you knew what
they were all about ?
richard ( terribly flustered'). Sure, I’ve heard that old
parody lots of times. What do you think I am ?
belle. I don’t know, Kid. Honest to God, you’ve
got me guessing.
bartender (with a mocking chuckle). He’s a hot sport,
can’t you tell it ? I never seen such a spender. My
head’s dizzy bringing you in drinks !
belle ( laughs irritably — to Richard). Don’t let him
kid you. You show him. Loosen up and buy another
drink, what say ?
richard ( humiliated — manfully). Sure. Excuse me.:
I was thinking of something else. Have anything you
like. (He turns to the Bartender who has entered from the
bar.) See what the lady will have — and have one on me
yourself.
bartender (coming to the table — with a wink at Belle).
That’s talking ! Didn’t I say you were a sport ? I’ll
take a cigar on you. (To Belle .) What's yours, Kiddo
— the same ?
belle. Yes. And forget the house rules this time
and remember a rickey is supposed to have gin in it.
bartender (grinning). I’ll try to — seeing it’s you.
(Then to Richard.) What’s yours — another beer ?
richard (shyly). A small one, please. I’m not
thirsty.
belle (calculatedly taunting). Say, honest, are things
82
AH, WILDERNESS !
that slow up at Harvard ? If they had you down at
New Haven, they’d put you in a kindergarten ! Don’ .
be such a dead one ! Filling up on beer will only make
you sleepy. Have a man’s drink !
richard ( shamefacedly ). All right. I was going to.
Bring me a sloe-gin fizz.
belle (to Bartender). And make it a real one.
bartender (with a wink). I get you. Something
that’ll warm him up, eh ? (He goes into the bar , chuckling .)
belle (looks around the room — irritably). Christ, what
a dump ! ( Richard is startled and shocked by this curse
and looks down at the table.) If this isn’t the deadest burg
I ever struck ! Bet they take the side-walks in after
nine o’clock ! (Then turning on him) Say, honestly,
Kid, does your mother know you’re out ?
richard (defensively). Aw, cut it out, why don’t you
— trying to kid me !
belle ( glances at him — then resolves on a new tack — pat-
ting his hand). All right. I didn’t mean to, Dearie.
Please don’t get sore at me.
richard. I’m not sore. •
belle (seductively). You see, it’s this way with me.
I think you’re one of the sweetest kids I’ve ever met —
and I could like you such a lot if you’d give me half a
chance — instead of acting so cold and indifferent.
richard. I’m not cold and indifferent. (Then sol-
emnly tragic.) It’s only that I’ve got — a weight on my
mind.
belle (impatiently). Well, get it off your mind and
give something else a chance to work.
83
AH, WILDERNESS !
(The Bartender comes in , bringing the drinks.)
bartender ( setting them down — with a wink at Belle).
This’ll warm him for you. Forty cents, that is — with the
cigar.
rxchard {pulls out his roll and hands a dollar bill over —
with exaggerated carelessness). Keep the change.
{Belle emits a gasp and seems about to protest , then
thinks better of it. The Bartender cannot
believe his luck for a moment — then pockets
the bill hastily , as if afraid Richard will change
his mindl)
bartender {respect in his voice). Thank you, sir.
richard (grandly ). Don’t mention it.
bartender. I hope you like the drink. I took
special pains with it. (The voice of the Salesman , who has
just come in the bar , calls “ Hey ! Anybody here ? ”
and a coin is rapped on the barl) I’m coming. ( The
Bartender goes out.)
belle ( remonstrating gently , a new appreciation for her
escort's possibilities in her voice). You shouldn’t be so
generous, Dearie. Gets him in bad habits. A dime
would have been plenty.
richard. Ah, that’s all right. I’m no tightwad.
belle. That’s the talk I like to hear. (With a quick
look toward the bar , she stealthily pulls up her dress — to
Richard's shocked fascination — and takes a package of cheap
cigarettes from her stocking.) Keep an eye out for that
bartender, Kid, and tell me if you see him coming.
Girls are only allowed to smoke upstairs in tho rooms,
he said.
84
AH, WILDERNESS !
Richard ( embarrassedly ). All right. I’ll watch.
belle ( having lighted her cigarette and inhaled deeply,
holds the package out to him). Have a Sweet ? You
smoke, don’t you ?
richard ( taking one). Sure ! I’ve been smoking for
the last two years — on the sly. But next year I’ll be
allowed — that is, pipes and cigars. (He lights his cigarette
with elaborate nonchalance , puffs, but does not inhale — then ,
watching her , with shocked concern .) Say, you oughtn’t to
inhale like that ! Smoking’s awful bad for girls, any-
way, even if they don’t
belle (cynically amused). Afraid it will stunt my
growth ? Gee, Kid, you are a scream ! You’ll grow
up to be a minister yet ! (Richard looks shamefaced. She
scans him impatiently — then holds up her drink.) Well,
here’s how ! Bottoms up, now ! Show me you really
know how to drink. It’ll take that load off your mind.
(Richard follows her example , and they both drink
the whole contents of their glasses before setting
them down . )
There 1 That’s something like ! Feel better ?
richard ( proud of himself — with a shy smile). Y ou bet.
belle. Well, you’ll feel still better in a minute — and
then maybe you won’t be so distant and unfriendly, eh ?
RICHARD. I’m not.
belle. Yes, you are. I think you just don’t like me.
richard (more manfully). I do too like you.
belle. How much ? A lot ?
RICHARD. Yes, a lot.
85
AH, WILDERNESS !
belle. Show me how much ! (Then as he fidgets
embarrassedly .) Want me to come sit on your lap ?
richard. Yes — I (She comes and sits on his lap.
He looks desperately uncomfortable, but the gin is rising to his
head and he feels proud of himself and devilish , tool)
belle. Why don’t you put your arm around me ?
(He does so awkwardly .) No, not that dead way. Hold
me tight. You needn’t be afraid of hurting me. I like
to be held tight, don’t you ?
richard. Sure I do.
belle. ’Specially when it’s by a nice handsome kid
like you. (Ruffling his hair, ) Gee, you’ve got pretty
hair ; do you know it ? Honest, I’m awfully strong for
you ! Why can’t you be about me ? I’m not so awfully
ugly, am I ?
richard. No, you’re — you’re pretty.
belle. You don’t say it as if you meant it.
richard. I do mean it — honest.
belle. Then why don’t you kiss me ? (She bends
down her lips toward his. He hesitates , then kisses her and
at once shrinks back.) Call that kissing ? Here. (She
holds his head and fastens her lips on his ahd holds them
there. He starts and struggles. She laughs. ) What’s
the matter, Honey Boy ? Haven’t you ever kissed like
that before ?
richard. Sure. Lots of times.
belle. Then why did you jump as if I’d bitten you ?
(Squirming around on his lap.) Gee, I’m getting just
crazy about you 1 What shall we do about it, eh P Tell
me.
86
AH, WILDERNESS !
richard. I — don’t know. (Then boldly .) I — I’m
crazy about you, too.
belle ( kissing him again). Just think of the wonderful
time Edith and your friend, Wint, are having upstairs
— while we sit down here like two dead ones. A room
only costs two dollars. And, seeing I like you so much,
I’d only take five dollars — from you. I’d do it for
nothing — for you — only I’ve got to live and I owe
my room rent in New Haven — and you know how it is.
I get ten dollars from everyone else. Honest ! (She
kisses him again , then gets up from his lap — briskly.) Come
on. Go out and tell the bartender you want a room.
And hurry. Honest, I’m so strong for you I can hardly
wait to get you upstairs !
richard (starts automatically for the door to the bar — then
hesitates , a great struggle going on in his mind — timidity, dis-
gust at the money element , shocked modesty , and the guilty
thought of Muriel , fighting it out with the growing tipsiness
that makes him want to be a hell of a fellow and go in for all
forbidden fruit , and makes this tart a romantic , evil vampire
in his eyes. Finally , he stops and mutters in confusion). I
can’t.
belle. What, are you too bashful to ask for a room ?
Let me do it, then.
( She starts for the door '. )
richard (desperately). No — I don’t want you to— I
don’t want to.
belle ( surveying him , anger coming into her eyes). Well,
if you aren’t the lousiest cheap skate !
richard. I’m not a cheap skate !
87
AH, WILDERNESS !
belle. Keep me around here all night fooling with
you when I might be out with some real live one- — if there
is such a thing in this burg ! — and now you quit on me !
Don’t be such a piker ! You’ve got five dollars ! I
seen it when you paid for the drinks, so don’t hand me
any lies !
richard. I Who said I hadn’t ? And I’m
not a piker. If you need the five dollars so bad — for
your room rent — you can have it without — I mean, I’ll
be glad to give (He has been jumbling in his -pocket
and pulls out his nine-dollar roll and holds out the jive to her.)
belle ( hardly able to believe her eyes , almost snatches it
jrom his hand — then laughs and immediately becomes senti-
mentally gratejul ). Thanks, Kid. Gee — oh, thanks
Gee, forgive me for losing my temper and bawling you
out, will you ? Gee, you’re a regular peach ! You’re
the nicest kid I’ve ever met ! {She kisses him and he grins
proudly , a hero to himselj now on many counts .) Gee, you’re
a peach ! Thanks, again !
richard ( grandly — and quite tipsily). It’s — nothing —
only too glad. (Then boldly.) Here — give me another
kiss, and that’ll pay me back.
belle (kissing him). I’ll give you a thousand, if you
want ’em. Come on, let’s sit down, and we’ll have
another drink — and this time I’ll blow you just to show
my appreciation. (She calls'?) Hey, George ! Bring
us another round — the same !
richard (a remnant oj caution coming to him). I don’t
know as I ought to
belle. Oh, another won’t hurt you. And I want to
blow you, see.
AH, WILDERNESS !
(They sit down in their former places .)
richard (boldly draws his chair closer and puts an arm
around her — tipsily). I like you a lot — now Pm getting to
know you. You’re a darned nice girl.
belle. Nice is good ! Tell me another ! Well, if
Pm so nice, why didn’t you want to take me upstairs ?
That’s what I don’t get.
richard (lying boldly). I did want to— only I
(Then he adds solemnly .) Pve sworn off.
(The Bartender enters with the drinks .)
bartender (setting them on the table). Here’s your
pleasure. (Then regarding Richard's arm about her waist.)
Ho-ho, we’re coming on, I see.
(Richard grins at him muzzily.)
belle (digs into her stocking and gives him a dollar).
Here. This is mine. (He gives her change and she tips
him a dime , and he goes out. She puts the five Richard had
given her in her stocking and picks up her glass.) Here’s
how — and thanks again. (She sips.)
richard (boisterously). Bottoms up 1 Bottoms up !
(He drinks all of his down and sighs with exaggerated satis-
faction.) Gee, that’s good stuff, all right. (Hugging
her.) Give me another kiss, Belle.
belle (kisses him). What did you mean a minute ago
when you said you’d sworn off ?
richard (solemnly). I took an oath Pd be faithful.
belle (cynically). Till death do us part, eh ? Who’s
the girl ?
richard (shortly). Never mind.
89
AH, WILDERNESS !
belle ( bristling ). I’m not good enough to talk about
her, I suppose ?
richard. I didn’t — mean that. You’re all right.
(Then with tipsy gravity .) Only you oughtn’t to lead this
kind of life. It isn’t right — for a nice girl like you.
Why don’t you reform ?
belle (sharply). Nix on that line of talk ! Can it,
you hear 1 You can do a lot with me for five dollars
— but you can’t reform me, see. Mind your own
business, Kid, and don’t butt in where you’re not wanted !
richard. I — I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.
belle. I know you didn’t mean. You’re only like a
lot of people who mean well, to hear them tell it. ( Chang-
ing the subject .) So you’re faithful to your one love, eh ?
(With an ugly sneer l) And how about her ? Bet you
she’s out with a guy under some bush this minute, giving
him all he wants. Don’t be a sucker. Kid 1 Even the
little flies do it !
richard (starting up in his chair — angrily ). Don’t
you say that. Don’t you dare !
belle (unimpressed- — with a cynical shrug of her shoulders).
All right. Have it your own way and be a sucker ! ft
cuts no ice with me.
richard. You don’t know her or
belle. And don’t want to. Shut up about her,
can’t you ?
(She stares before her bitterly. Richard subsides
into scowling gloom. He is becoming per-
ceptibly more intoxicated with each moment now.
The Bartender and the Salesman appear just
90
AH, WILDERNESS !
inside the swinging door. The Bartender
nods toward Belle , giving the Salesman a drink.
The Salesman grins and comes into the room ,
carrying his highball in his hand. He is a
stout , jowly-faced man in his late thirties ,
dressed with cheap nattiness , with the pro-
fessional breeziness and jocular , kid- em-along
manner of his kind. Belle looks up as he
enters and he and she exchange a glance of
complete recognition. She knows his type by
heart and he knows hers.)
salesman {passes by her to the table at right — grinning
genially). Good evening.
belle. Good evening.
salesman {sitting down). Hope I’m not butting in
on your party — but my dogs were giving out standing at
that bar.
belle. All right with me. {Giving Richard a rather
contemptuous lookf) I’ve got no party on.
salesman. That sounds hopeful.
Richard {suddenly recites sentimentally).
“ But I wouldn’t do such, ’cause I loved her too much,
But I learned about women from her.”
(Turns to scowl at the Salesman — then to Belief Let’s
have ’nother drink 1
belle. You’ve had enough.
{Richard subsides , muttering to himself l)
salesman. What is it — a child poet or a child actor ?
belle. Don’t know. Got me guessing.
9 1
AH, WILDERNESS !
salesman. Well, if you could shake the cradle-
robbing act, maybe we could do a little business.
belle. That’s easy. I just pull my freight. (She
shakes Richard by the arm.) Listen, Kid. Here’s an
old friend of mine, Mr. Smith of New Haven, just come
in. I’m going over and sit at his table for a while, see.
And you better go home.
richard ( blinking at her and scowling). I’m never
going home 1 I’ll show them !
belle. Have it your own way — only let me up.
( She takes his arm from around her and goes to
sit by the Salesman. Richard stares after her
offendedlyl)
richard. Go on. What do I care what you do ?
(He recites scornfully .) “For a woman’s only a woman,
but a good cigar’s a smoke.”
salesman (as Belle sits beside him). Well, what kind
of beer will you have, Sister ?
belle. Mine’s a gin rickey.
salesman. You’ve got extravagant tastes, I’m sorry
to see.
richard ( begins to recite sepulchrally).
“ Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard.”
salesman (grinning). Say, this is rich 1 (He calls
encouragement .) That’s swell dope, young feller. Give
us some more.
richard (ignoring him — goes on more rhetorically).
92
AH, WILDERNESS !
“ Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword ! ”
(He stares at Belle gloomily and mutters tragically .) I did it
with a kiss ! I’m a coward.
salesman. That’s the old stuff. Kid. You’ve got
something on the ball, all right, all right ! Give us
another — right over the old pan, now !
belle (with a laugh). Get the hook !
richard ( glowering at her — tragically).
“ * Oho,’ they cried, * the world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame !
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame ! ’ ”
belle (angrily). Aw, can it ! Give us a rest from
that bunk !
salesman (mockingly). This gal of yours don’t appre-
ciate poetry. She’s a lowbrow. But I’m the kid that
eats it up. My middle name is Kelly and Sheets ! Give
us some more of the same ! Do you know “ The Lob-
ster and the Wise Guy ” ? (Turns to Belle seriously.)
No kidding, that’s a peacherino. I heard a guy recite
it at Poli’s. Maybe this nut knows it. Do you, Kid ?
(But Richard only glowers at him gloomily without answering!)
belle (surveying Richard contemptuously). He’s copped
a fine skinful— and gee, he’s hardly had anything.
richard (suddenly — with a dire emphasis). “ And
93
AH, WILDERNESS !
then — at ten o’clock — Eilert Lovborg will come — with
vine leaves in his hair ! ”
belle. And bats in his belfry, if he’s you !
richard (regards her bitterly — then starts to his feet
bellicosely — to the Salesman). I don’t believe you ever
knew her in New Haven at all ! You just picked her up
now ! You leave her alone, you hear ! You won’t
do anything to her — not while I’m here to protect her !
belle (laughing). Oh, my God ! listen to it !
salesman. Ssshh ! This is a scream ! Wait ! (He
addresses Richard in tones of exaggerated melodrama .)
Curse you, Jack Dalton, if I won’t unhand her, what
then ?
richard (threateningly). I’ll give you a good punch
in the snoot, that’s what ! (He moves toward their tab lei)
salesman (with mock terror — screams in falsetto ). Help !
Help !
(The Bartender comes in irritably .)
bartender. Hey. Cut out the noise. What the
• hell’s up with you ?
richard (tipsily). He’s too — damn fresh !
salesman (with a wink). He’s going to murder me !
(Then gets a bright idea for eliminating Richard — seriously
to the Bartender .) It’s none of my business, Brother,
but if I were in your boots I’d give this young souse
the gate. He’s under age ; any fool can see that.
bartender (guiltily). He told me he was over eighteen.
salesman. Yes, and I tell you I’m the Pope — but you
94
AH, WILDERNESS !
don’t have to believe me. If you’re not looking for
trouble, I’d advise you to get him started for some
other gin mill and let them do the lying, if anything
comes up.
bartender. Hmm. (He turns to Richard angrily
and gives him a push.) Come on, now. On your
way ! You’ll start no trouble in here ! Beat it now !
richard. I will not beat it !
bartender. Oho, won’t you ? (He gives him another
push that almost sends him sprawling.)
belle (callously). Give him the bum’s rush ! I’m
sick of his bull !
( Richard turns furiously and tries to punch the
Bartender.)
bartender (avoids the punch). Oho, you would,
would you ! (He grabs Richard by the back of the neck
and the seat of the pants and marches him ignominiously
toward the swinging door.)
richard. Leggo of me, you dirty coward 1
bartender. Quiet now — or I’ll pin a Mary Ann on
your jaw that’ll quiet you ! (He rushes him through the
screen door and a moment later the outer doors are heard
swinging back and forth.)
salesman (with a chuckle). Hand it to me, Kid.
How was that for a slick way of getting rid of him ?
belle (suddenly sentimental ). Poor kid. I hope he
makes home all right. I liked him — before he got
soused.
salesman. Who is he ?
95
ah, WILDERNESS !
belle. The boy who’s upstairs with my friend told
me, but I didn’t pay much attention. Name’s Miller.
His old man runs a paper in this one-horse burg, I think
he said.
salesman (with a whistle). Phew ! He must be Nat
Miller’s kid, then.
bartender (coming hack from the bar). Well, he’s on
his way — with a good boot in the tail to help him 1
salesman ( with a malicious chuckle). Yes ? Well
maybe that boot will cost you a job, Brother. Know
Nat Miller who runs the “ Globe ” ? That’s his kid.
bartender (his face falling). The hell he is ! Who
said so ?
salesman. This baby doll. ( Getting up) Say, I’ll
go keep cases on him — see he gets on the trolley all
right, anyway. Nat Miller’s a good scout. (He hurries
out)
bartender ( 'viciously ). God damn the luck ! If he
ever finds out I served his kid, he’ll run me out of town.
(He turns on Belle furiously .) Why didn’t you put me
wise, you lousy tramp, you !
belle. Hey 1 I don’t stand for that kind of talk
— not from no hick beer-squirter like you, see 1
bartender (furiously). You don’t, don’t you ! Who
was it but you told me to hand him dynamite in that fizz ?
(He gives her chair a push that almost throws her to the
floor) Beat it, you — and beat it quick — or I’ll call
Sullivan from the corner and have you run in for street-
walking ! (He gives her a push that lands her against the
family-entrance door) Get the hell out of here — and no
long waits !
96
AH, WILDERNESS !
belle (opens the door and goes out — turns and calls back
viciously). I’ll fix you for this, you thick Mick, if I have
to go to jail for it. ( She goes out and slams the door.)
bartender (looks after her worriedly for a second — then
shrugs his shoulders). That’s only her bull. (Then with a
sigh as he returns to the bar.) Them lousy tramps is
always getting this dump in Dutch !
Curtain
SCENE TWO
scene. Same as Act One — Sitting-room of the Miller
home — about 1 1 o'clock the same night.
Miller is sitting in his favourite rocking-chair at left
of table , front. He has discarded collar and tie , coat
and shoes , and wears an old , worn , brown dressing-
gown and disreputable-looking carpet slippers. He has
his reading specs on and is running over items in a
newspaper. But his mind is plainly preoccupied and
worried , and he is not paying much attention to what
he reads.
Mrs. Miller sits by the table at right, front. She also
has on her specs. A sewing-basket is on her lap and
she is trying hard to keep her attention fixed on the doily
she is doing. But , as in the case of her husband , but
much more apparently , her mind is preoccupied , and she
is obviously on tenterhooks of nervous uneasiness.
Lily is sitting in the armchair by the table at rear ,
facing right. She is pretending to read a novel, but
her attention wanders, too, and her expression is sad,
although now it has lost all its bitterness and become
submissive and resigned again.
a.w. 97
G
AH, WILDERNESS !
Mildred sits at the desk at rights front , writing two
words over and over again , stopping each time to sur-
vey the result critically , kiting her tongue , intensely con-
centrated on her work.
Tommy sits on the sofa at left, front. He has had a
hard day and is terribly sleepy but will not acknowledge
it. His eyes blink shut on him, his head begins to nod,
but he isn't giving up, and every time he senses any
of the family glancing in his direction, he goads himself
into a bright-eyed wakefulness.
Mildred {finally surveys the two words she has been
writing and is satisfied with them). There. ( She takes the
paper over to her mother .) Look, Ma. I’ve been prac-
tising a new way of writing my name. Don’t look at
the others, only the last one. Don’t you think it’s the
real goods ?
mrs. miller {pulled out of her preoccupation). Don’t
talk that horrible slang. It’s bad enough for boys, but
for a young girl supposed to have manners — my goodness,
when I was your age, if my mother’d ever heard me
mildred. Well, don’t you think it’s nice, then ?
mrs. miller {sinks back into preoccupation — scanning the
paper- — vaguely). Yes, very nice, Mildred — very nice,
indeed. {Hands the paper back mechanically l)
mildred {is a little piqued, but smiles). Absent-
minded ! I don’t believe you even saw it.
{She passes around the table to show her Aunt Lily.
Miller gives an uneasy glance at his wife and
then , as if afraid of meeting her eye , looks
quickly back at his paper again.)
MRS.. MILLER {staring before her — sighs worriedly). Oh,
I do wish Richard would come home ! S
98
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller. There now, Essie. He’ll be in any minute
now. Don’t you worry about him.
mrs. miller. But I do worry about him !
lily ( surveying Mildred's handiwork — smiling ). This is
fine, Mildred. Your penmanship is improving wonder-
fully. But don’t you think that maybe you’ve got a little
too many flourishes ?
Mildred {disappointedly). But, Aunt Lily, that’s just
what I was practising hardest on.
mrs. miller {with another sigh). What time is it now,
Nat ?
miller {adopting a joking tone). I’m going to buy a
clock for in here. You have me reaching for my watch
every couple of minutes. {He has pulled his watch out of
his vest pocket — with forced carelessness .) Only a little
past ten.
mrs. miller. Why, you said it was that an hour ago !
Nat Miller, you’re telling me a fib, so’s not to worry me.
You let me see that watch !
miller {guiltily ). Well, it’s quarter to eleven — but
that’s not so late — when you remember it’s Fourth of
July-
mrs. miller. If you don’t stop talking Fourth
of July 1 To hear you go on, you’d think that
was an excuse for anything from murder to picking
pockets !
mildred {has brought her paper around to her father and
now shoves it under his nose). Look, Pa.
miller {seizes on this interruption with relief). Let’s see.
Hmm, Seems to me you’ve been inventing a new signa-
99
ah, WILDERNESS !
ture every -week lately. What are you in training for —
writing cheques ? You must be planning to catch a rich
husband.
mildred (with an a rchtoss of her head ). No wedding
bells for me ! But how do you like it, Pa ?
miller. It’s overpowering — no other word for it,
overpowering ! You could put it on the Declaration of
Independence and not feel ashamed.
MRS. miller ( 'desolately , almost on the verge of tears). It’s
all right for you to laugh and joke with Mildred ! I’m
the only one in this house seems to care {Her lips
tremble .)
mildred {a bit disgustedly). Ah, Ma, Dick only
sneaked off to the fireworks at the beach, you wait and see.
mrs. miller. Those fireworks were over long ago.
If he had, he’d be home.
lily {soothingly). He probably couldn’t get a seat, the
trolleys are so jammed, and he had to walk home.
miller {seizing on this with relief). Yes, I never
thought of that, but I’ll bet that’s it.
mildred. Ah, don’t let him worry you, Ma. He
just wants to show off he’s heart-broken about that silly
Muriel — and get everyone fussing over him and wonder-
ing if he hasn’t drowned himself or something.
mrs. miller {snappily). You be quiet ! The way
you talk at times, I really believe you’re that hard-hearted
you haven’t got a heart in you ! {With an accusing glance
at her husband.) One thing I know, you don’t get that
from me !
ioo
AH, WILDERNESS !
(He meets her eye and avoids it guiltily. She sniffs
and looks away from him around the room.
Tommy , who is nodding and blinking , is afraid
her eye is on him. He straightens alertly and
speaks in a voice that , in spite of his effort , is
dripping with drowsiness .)
tommy. Let me see what you wrote, Mid.
Mildred (cruelly mocking). You ? You’re so sleepy
you couldn’t see it !
tommy ( valiantly ). I am not sleepy !
mrs. miller (has fixed her eye on him). My gracious,
I was forgetting you were still up ! You run up to bed
this minute ! It’s hours past your bedtime 1
tommy. But it’s the Fourth of July. Ain’t it, Pa ?
mrs. miller (gives her husband an accusing stare).
There ! You see what you’ve done ? You might know
he’d copy your excuses ! (Then sharply to Tommy .) You
heard what I said, Young Man !
tommy. Aw, Ma, can’t I stay up a little longer ?
mrs. miller. I said, no ! You obey me and no
more arguing about it !
tommy (drags himself to his feet). Aw ! I should
think I could stay up till Dick
miller ( kindly but firmly). You heard your ma say no
more arguing. When she says git, you better git.
( Tommy accepts his fate resignedly and starts around
kissing them all good night.)
tommy ( kissing her). Good night, Aunt Lily.
IOI
AH, WILDERNESS !
lily. Good night, dear. Sleep well.
tommy {pecking at Mildred ). Good night, you.
mildred. Good night, you.
tommy { kissing hint). Good night, Pa.
miller. Good night, Son. Sleep tight.
tommy ( kissing her). Good night, Ma.
MRS. miller. Good night. Here 1 You look fever-
ish. Let me feel of your head. No, you’re all right.
Hurry up, now. And don’t forget your prayers.
{Tommy goes slowly to the doorway — then turns sud-
denly . , the discovery oj another excuse lighting
up his face)
tommy. Here’s another thing, Ma. When I was up
to the water-closet last
mrs. miller {sharply). When you were where ?
tommy. The bathroom.
mrs. miller. That’s better.
tommy. Uncle Sid was snoring like a fog-horn — and
he’s right next to my room. How can I ever get to
sleep while he’s {He is overcome by a jaw-cracking
yawn)
mrs. miller. I guess you’d get to sleep all right if
you were inside a fog-horn. You run along now.
{Tommy gives up, grins sleepily , and moves off to bed.
As soon as he is off her mind, all her former
uneasiness comes back on Mrs. Miller tenfold.
She sighs , moves restlessly, then finally asks)
102
AH, WILDERNESS !
What time is it now, Nat ?
miller. Now, Essie, I just told you a minute ago.
mrs. miller ( 'resentfully ). I don’t see how you can
take it so calm ! Here it’s midnight, you might say,
and our Richard still out, and we don’t even know where
he is.
Mildred. I hear someone on the piazza. Bet that’s
him now, Ma.
mrs. miller (her anxiety immediately turning to relieved
anger). You give him a good piece of your mind, Nat,
you hear me ! You’re too easy with him, that’s the
whole trouble ! The idea of him daring to stay out like
this !
( The front door is heard being opened and shut , and
someone whistling “ Watlz Me Around Again ,
miner)
mildred. No, that isn’t Dick. It’s Art.
mrs. miller ( her face falling). Oh.
(A moment later Arthur enters through the front
parlour , whistling softly , half under his breath ,
looking complacently pleased with himself ’.)
miller (surveys him over his glasses , not with enthusiasm
— shortly). So you’re back, eh ? We thought it was
Richard.
Arthur. Is he still out ? Where’d he go to ?
miller. That’s just what we’d like to know. You
didn’t run into him anywhere, did you ?
Arthur. No. I’ve been at the Rands’ ever since
103
AH, WILDERNESS !
dinner. (He sits down in the armchair at left of table , rear.)
I suppose he sneaked off to the beach to watch the fire-
works.
miller (pretending an assurance he is far from feeling).
Of course. That’s what we’ve been trying to tell your
mother, but she insists on worrying her head off.
mrs. miller. But if he was going to the fireworks,
why wouldn’t he say so ? He knew we’d let him.
Arthur (with calm wisdom ). That’s easy, Ma. (He
grins superiorly .) Didn’t you hear him this morning
showing off bawling out the Fourth like an anarchist ?
He wouldn’t want to reneg on that to you — but he’d want
to see the old fireworks just the same. (He adds com-
placently. ) I know. He’s at the foolish age.
miller (stares at Arthur with ill-concealed astonishment ,
then grins). Well, Arthur, by gosh, you make me feel
as if I owed you an apology when you talk horse sense
like that. (He turns to his wife , greatly relieved.)
Arthur's hit the nail right on the head, I think, Essie.
That was what I couldn’t figure out — why he — but now
it’s clear as day.
mrs. miller (with a sigh). Well, I hope you’re right.
But I wish he was home.
Arthur (takes out his pipe and fills and lights it with
solemn gravity). He oughtn’t to be allowed out this late
at his age. I wasn’t, Fourth or no Fourth — if I
remember.
miller (a twinkle in his eyes). Don’t tax your memory
trying to recall those ancient days of your youth.
(Mildred laughs and Arthur looks sheepish. But he
soon regains his aplombl)
104
AH, WILDERNESS !
Arthur (importantly). We had a corking dinner at the
Rands’. We had sweetbreads on toast.
mrs. miller (arising momentarily from her depression).
Just like the Rands to put on airs before you ! I never
could see anything to sweetbreads. Always taste like
soap to me. And no real nourishment to them. I
wouldn’t have the pesky things on my table !
(Arthur again feels sat upon)
Mildred (teasingly). Did you kiss Elsie good night ?
Arthur. Stop trying to be so darn funny all the
time ! You give me a pain in the ear !
mildred. And that’s where she gives me a pain, the
stuck-up thing ! — thinks she’s the whole cheese !
miller (irritably). And it’s where your everlasting
wrangling gives me a pain, you two 1 Give us a rest !
(There is silence for a moment .)
mrs. miller (sighs worriedly again). I do wish that
boy would get home !
miller (glances at her uneasily , peeks surreptitiously at
his watch — then has an inspiration and turns to Arthur).
Arthur, what’s this I hear about your having such a good
singing voice ? Rand was telling me he liked nothing
better than to hear you sing — said you did every night
you were up there. Why don’t you ever give us folks
at home here a treat ?
Arthur (pleased , but still nursing wounded dignity). I
thought you’d only sit on me.
mrs. miller (perking up — proudly). Arthur has a real
*°5
AH, WILDERNESS !
7 ’ce voice. He practises when you’re not at home. I
dn’t know you cared for singing, Nat.
miller. Well, I do — nothing better — and when I
was a boy I had a fine voice myself and folks used to say
I’d ought (Then abruptly, mindful of his painful
experience with reminiscence at dinner , looking about him
guiltily .) Hmm. But don’t hide your light under a
bushel, Arthur. Why not give us a song or two now ?
You can play for him, can’t you, Mildred ?
mildred (with a toss of her head). I can play as well as
Elsie Rand, at least !
Arthur ( ignoring her — clearing his throat importantly).
I’ve been singing a lot to-night. I don’t know if my
voice
mildred {forgetting her grudge, grabs her brother's hand
and tugs at it). Come on. Don’t play modest. You
know you’re just dying to show off.
{This puts Arthur off it at once. He snatches his
hand away from her angrily.)
Arthur. Let go of me, you ! {Then with surly
dignity.) I don’t feel like singing to-night, Pa. I will
some other time.
miller. You let him alone, Mildred !
{He winks at Arthur, indicating with his eyes and
a nod of his head Mrs. Miller, who has again
sunk into worried brooding. He makes it
plain by this pantomime that he wants him to
sing to distract his mother's mind.)
Arthur ( puts aside his pipe and gets up promptly). Oh —
sure, I’ll do the best I can. (He follows Mildred into the
front parlour, where he switches on the lights .)
106
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (to his wife). It won’t keep Tommy awake.
Nothing could. And Sid, he’d sleep through an earth-
quake. ( Then suddenly , looking through the front parlour
— grumpily.) Darn it, speak of the devil, here he comes.
Well, he’s had a good sleep and he’d ought to be sobered
up. ( Lily gets up from her chair and looks around her
huntedly , as if for a place to hide. Miller says soothingly:)
Lily, you just sit down and read your book and don’t
pay any attention to him.
(She sits down again and bends over her book tensely.
From the front parlour comes the tinkling of a
piano as Mildred runs over the scales. In the
midst of this , Sid enters through the front par-
lour. All the effervescence of his jag has worn
of and he is now sufering from a bad case of
hangover — nervous , sick, a prey to gloomy
remorse and bitter feelings of self-loathing and
self-pity. His eyes are bloodshot and puffed,
his face bloated, the fringe of hair around his
baldness tousled and tufty. He sidles into the
room guiltily , his eyes shifting about , avoiding
looking at anyone .)
sid (forcing a sickly, twitching smile). Hello.
miller (considerately casual). Hello, Sid. Had a good
nap ?
(Then, as Sid swallows hard and is about to break
into further speech, Mildred's voice comes from
the front parlour, “ I haven’t played that in
ever so long, but 1 11 try,” and she starts an
accompaniment. Miller motions Sid to be
quiet.)
Ssshh ! Arthur’s going to sing for us.
107
AH, WILDERNESS !
(Sid flattens himself against the edge of the bookcase
at centre , rear, miserably self-conscious and ill
at ease there but nervously afraid to move any-
where else. Arthur begins to sing. He has a
fairly decent voice but his method is untrained
sentimentality to a dripping degree. He sings
that old sentimental favourite , “ Then You'll
Remember Me." The effect on his audience
is instant. Miller gazes before him with a
ruminating melancholy, his face seeming to
become gently sorrowful and old. Mrs. Milled
stares before her, her expression becoming more
and more doleful. Lily forgets to pretend to
read her book but looks over it, her face growing
tragically sad. As for Sid, he is moved to his
remorseful, guilt-stricken depths. His mouth
pulls down at the corners and he seems about
to cry. The song comes to an end. Miller
starts , then claps his hands enthusiastically and
calls :)
Well done, Arthur — well done ! Why, you’ve got a
splendid voice ! Give us some more ! You liked that,
didn’t you, Essie ?
mrs. miller (dolefully). Yes — but it’s sad — terrible
sad.
sid (after swallowing hard, suddenly blurts out). Nat
and Essie — and Lily — I — I want to apologize — for
coming home — the way I did — there’s no excuse — but
I didn’t mean
miller (sympathetically). Of course, Sid. It’s all
forgotten.
MRS. miller (rousing herself — affectionately pitying).
108
AH, WILDERNESS !
Don’t be a goose, Sid. We know how it is with picnics.
You forget it.
(His face lights up a bit but his gaze shifts to Lily
with a mute appeal , hoping for a word from
her which is not forthcoming. Her eyes are
fixed on her book , her body tense and rigid.)
sid ( finally blurts out desperately ). Lily — I’m sorry —
about the fireworks. Can you — forgive me ?
( But Lily remains implacably silent. A stricken
look comes over Sid's face. In the front par-
lour Mildred is heard saying “ But I only know
the chorus ” — and she starts another accom-
paniment!)
miller (comes to Sid's rescue ). Ssshh ! We’re going
to have another song. Sit down, Sid.
(Sidy hanging his heady flees to the farthest corner ,
lefty front , and sits at the end of the sofa , fac-
ing front , hunched upy elbows on knees , face
in hands , his round eyes childishly wounded
and woebegone. Arthur sings the popular
“ Dearie,” playing up its sentimental values
for all he is worth. The effect on his audience
is that of the previous song . , intensified — especi-
ally upon Sid. As he finishes , Miller again
starts and applauds .)
Mighty fine, Arthur ! You sang that darned well !
Didn’t he, Essie ?
mrs. miller (dolefully). Yes — but I wish he wouldn’t
sing such sad songs. (Then, her lips trembling .)
Richard’s always whistling that.
109
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( hastily — calls). Give us something cheery,
next one, Arthur. You know, just for variety’s sake.
sid ( suddenly turns toward Lily — his voice choked with
tears — in a passion of self-denunciation). You’re right,
Lily ! — right not to forgive me ! — I’m no good and
never will be ! — I’m a no-good drunken bum ! — you
shouldn’t even wipe your feet on me ! — I’m a dirty,
rotten drunk ! — no good to myself or anybody else ! —
if I had any guts I’d kill myself, and good riddance ! —
but I haven’t ! — I’m yellow, too ! — a yellow, drunken
bum !
(He hides his face in his hands and begins to sob like
a sick little boy. This is too much for Lily.
All her bitter hurt and steely resolve to ignore
and punish him vanish in a flash , swamped by
a pitying love for him. She runs and puts her
arm around him — even kisses him tenderly and
impulsively on his bald head , and soothes him
as if he were a little boy. Mrs. Miller , almost
equally moved , has half risen to go to her
brother , too, but Miller winks and shakes his
head vigorously and motions her to sit down.)
lily. There ! Don’t cry, Sid ! I can’t bear it 1
Of course, I forgive you ! Haven’t I always forgiven
you ? I know you’re not to blame So don’t, Sid !
sid ( lifts a tearful , humbly grateful , pathetic face to her —
but a face that the dawn of a cleansed conscience is already
beginning to restore to its natural Puckish expression). Do
you really forgive me I know I don’t deserve it
—can you really ?
lily (gently). I told you I did, Sid — and I do.
I IQ
AH, WILDERNESS !
sid ( kisses her hand humbly , like a big -puppy licking if).
Thanks, Lily. I can’t tell you
(In the front parlour , Arthur begins to sing rollick-
ingly “ Waiting at the Church ,” and after the
first line or two Mildred joins in. Sid's face
lights up with appreciation and , automatically ,
he begins to tap one foot in time , still holding
fast to Lily's hand. When they come to “ sent
around a note , this is what she wrote” he can
no longer resist , but joins in a shaky bawl.)
“ Can’t get away to marry you to-day, My wife won’t
let me !”
(As the song finishes, the two in the other room laugh.
Miller and Sid laugh. Lily smiles at Sid's
laughter. Only Mrs. Miller remains dolefully
preoccupied, as if she hadn't heard '. )
miller. That’s fine, Arthur and Mildred. That’s
darned good.
si d (turning to Lily enthusiastically) . Y ou ought to hear
Vesta Victoria sing that ! Gosh, she’s great ! I heard
her at Hammerstein’s Victoria — you remember, that trip
I made to New York.
lily (her face suddenly tired and sad again — for her
memory of certain aspects of that trip is the opposite from
what he would like her to recall at this moment — gently disen-
gaging her hand from his — with a hopeless sigh). Yes, I
remember, Sid.
(He is overcome momentarily by guilty confusion.
She goes quietly and sits down in her chair
again. In the front parlour, from now on,
Mildred keeps starting to run over popular
tunes but always gets stuck and turns to another .)
1 1 1
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller (suddenly). What time is it now, Nat ?
(Then without giving him a chance to answer.) Oh, I’m
getting worried something dreadful, Nat ! You don’t
know what might have happened to Richard ! You read
in the papers every day about boys getting run over by
automobiles.
lily. Oh, don’t say that, Essie !
miller (sharply, to conceal his own reawakened apprehen-
sion). Don’t get to imagining things, now !
mrs. miller. Well, why couldn’t it happen, with
everyone that owns one out to-night, and lots of those
driving, drunk ? Or he might have gone down to the
beach dock and fallen overboard ! (On the verge of
hysteria .) Oh, I know something dreadful’s happened 1
And you can sit there listening to songs and laughing as
if Why don’t you do something ? Why don’t
you go out and find him ? (She bursts into tears.)
lily ( come,s to her quickly and puts her arm around her).
Essie, you mustn’t worry so ! You’ll make yourself
sick I Richard’s all right. I’ve got a feeling in my
bones he’s all right.
Mildred (comes hurrying in from the front parlour).
What’s the trouble ? (Arthur appears in the doorway
beside her. She goes to her mother and also puts an arm
around her.) Ah, don’t cry, Ma ! Dick’ll turn up in
a minute or two, wait and see !
Arthur. Sure, he will 1
miller (has gotten to his feet, frowning — soberly). I was
going out to look — if he wasn’t back by twelve sharp.
That’d be the time it’d take him to walk from the beach
if he left after the last car. But I’ll go now, if it’ll ease
1 12
AH, WILDERNESS !
your mind. I’ll take the auto and drive out the beach
road — and likely pick him up on the way. (He has taken
his collar and tie from where they hang from one corner of the
bookcase at rear , centre, and is starting to -put them on.)
" You better come with me, Arthur.
Arthur. Sure thing, Pa. ( Suddenly he listens and
says.) Ssshh ! There’s someone on the piazza now —
coming around to this door, too. That must be him.
No one else would
a mrs. miller. Oh, thank God, thank God !
miller (with a sheepish smile). Darn him ! I’ve a
notion to give him hell for worrying us all like this.
(The screen door is pushed violently open and Richard
lurches in and stands swaying a little , blinking
his eyes in the light. His face is a pasty
pallor , shining with perspiration , and his eyes
are glassy. The knees of his trousers are dirty ,
one of them torn from the sprawl on the side-
walk he had taken , following the Bartender's
kick. They all gape at him , too paralysed for
a moment to say anything .)
mrs. miller. Oh God, what’s happened to him !
He’s gone crazy ! Richard !
sid (the first to regain presence of mind — with a grin).
Crazy, nothing. He’s only soused !
Arthur. He’s drunk, that’s what 1 (Then shocked
and condemning .) You’ve got your nerve ! You fresh
kid 1 We’ll take that out of you when we get you down
to Yale !
richard ( with a wild gesture of defiance — maudlinly
dramatic).
A.W.
II 3
H
AH, WILDERNESS !
“ Yesterday this Day’s Madness did prepare
To-morrow’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair.
Drink ! for ”
miller (his face grown stern and angry , takes a threatening B
step toward him). Richard ! How dare !
mrs. miller ( hysterically ). Don’t you strike him, Nat !
Don’t you ! ^
sid (grabbing his arm). Steady, Nat ! Keep your
temper ! No good bawling him out now ! He don’t j.
know what he’s doing !
miller (controlling himself and looking a bit ashamed).
All right — you’re right, Sid.
richard (drunnenly glorying in the sensation he is creating
— recites with dramatic emphasis). “ And then — I will
come — with vine leaves in my hair ! ” (He laughs with
a double-dyed sardonicism.)
mrs. miller (staring at him as if she couldn't believe
her eyes). Richard 1 You’re intoxicated ! — you bad,
wicked boy, you !
richard (forces a wicked leer to his lips and quotes with
ponderous mockery). “ Fancy that, Hedda ! ” (Then
suddenly his whole expression changes , his pallor takes on a
greenish , seasick tinge , his eyes seem to be turned inward
uneasily — and, all pose gone , he calls to his mother appeal-
ingly , like a sick little boy.) Ma ! I feel — rotten !
(Mrs. Miller gives a cry and starts to go to him , but
Sid steps in her way.)
sid. You let me take care of him, Essie. I know
this game backwards.
1 14
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (putting his arm around his wife). Yes, you
leave him to Sid.
si0 (his arm around Richard — leading him off through the
front ■parlour). Come on, Old Sport ! Upstairs we go 1
Your old Uncle Sid’ll fix you up. He’s the kid that
wrote the book 1
mrs. miller ( staring after them — still aghast). Oh, it’s
too terrible 1 Imagine our Richard 1 And did you
hear him talking about some Hedda ? Oh, I know he’s
been with one of those bad women, I know he has — my
Richard 1 (She hides her face on Miller's shoulder and
sobs heart-brokenly.)
miller (a tired , harassed , deeply worried look on his face
— soothing her). Now, now, you mustn’t get to imagining
such things ! You mustn’t, Essie ! {Lily and Mildred
and Arthur are standing about awkwardly with awed ,
shocked faces.)
Curtain
ACT FOUR
SCENE ONE
scene. The same — Sitting-room of the Miller house —
about i o'clock in the afternoon of the following day.
As the cumin rises , the family } with the exception of
Richard , are discovered coming in through the back
parlour from dinner in the dining-room . Miller and
his wife come first. His face is set in an expression
of frowning severity : Mrs. Miller's face is drawn and
worried. She has evidently had no rest yet from a
sleepless , tearful night. Sid is himself again , his
expression as innocent as if nothing had occurred the
previous day that remotely concerned him. And , out-
side of eyes that are bloodshot and nerves that are
shaky , he shows no after-effects except that he is terribly
sleepy. Lily is gently sad and depressed. Arthur is
self-consciously a virtuous young man against whom
nothing can be said. Mildred and Tommy are subdued ,
covertly watching their father.
They file into the sitting-room in silence and then
stand around uncertainly , as if each were afraid to be
the first to sit down. The atmosphere is as stiltedly
grave as if they were attending a funeral service.
Their eyes keep fixed on the head of the house , who has
gone to the window at right and is staring out frown-
ingly, savagely chewing a toothpick.
•' miller (finally — irritably). Damn it. I'd ought to be
116
AH, WILDERNESS !
back at the office putting in some good licks ! I’ve a
whole pile of things that have got to be done to-day 1
MRS. miller (accusingly). You don’t mean to tell me
you’re going back without seeing him ? It’s your
duty !
miller ( ' exasperatedly ). ’Course I’m not ! I wish
you’d stop jumping to conclusions ! What else did I
come home for, I’d like to know ? Do I usually come
way back here for dinner on a busy day ? I was only
wishing this hadn’t come up — -just at this particular time.
(He ends up very lamely and is irritably conscious of the fact.)
tommy (who has been fidgeting restlessly — unable to bear
the suspense a moment longer ). What is it Dick done ?
Why is everyone scared to tell me ?
miller (seizes this as an escape valve — turns and fixes his
youngest son with a stern, forbidding eye). Young man, I’ve
never spanked you yet, but that don’t mean I never will !
Seems to me that you’ve been just itching for it lately !
You keep your mouth shut till you’re spoken to — or I
warn you something’s going to happen !
mrs. miller. Yes, Tommy, you keep still and don’t
bother your pa. (Then warningly to her husband.) Care-
ful what you say, Nat. Little pitchers have big ears.
miller (^peremptorily). You kids skedaddle — all of
you. Why are you always hanging around the house ?
Go out and play in the yard, or take a walk, and get some
fresh air.
( Mildred takes Tommy's hand and leads him out
through the front parlour. Arthur hangs back ,
as if the designation “ kids ” couldn't possibly
117
AH, WILDERNESS !
apply to him. His father notices this —
impatiently?)
You, too, Arthur.
( Arthur goes out with a stiff , wounded dignity .)
lily ( tactfully ). I think I’ll go for a walk, too.
{She goes out through the front parlour. Sid makes
a movement as if to follow her.)
miller. I’d like you to stay, Sid — for a while, anyway.
sid. Sure. {He sits down in the rocking-chair at rights
rear , of table and immediately yawns.) Gosh, I’m dead.
Don’t know what’s the matter with me to-day. Can’t
seem to keep awake.
miller {with caustic sarcasm). Maybe that demon
chowder you drank at the picnic poisoned you !
{Sid looks sheepish and forces a grin. Then Miller
turns to his wife with the air of one who
determinedly faces the unpleasant .)
Where is Richard ?
mrs. miller (flusteredly). He’s still in bed. I made
him stay in bed to punish him — and I thought he ought
to, anyway, after being so sick. But he says he feels all
right.
sid {with another yawn). ’Course he does. When
you’re young you can stand anything without it feazing
you. Why, I remember when I ''could come down on
the morning after, fresh as a daisy, and eat a breakfast of
pork chops and fried onions and {He stops guiltily.)
miller {bitingly). I suppose that was before eating
lobster shells had ruined your iron constitution !
1 1 8
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller ( regards her brother severely). If I was in
your shoes, I’d keep still ! ( Then turning to her husband.)
Richard must be feeling better. He ate all the dinner
I sent up, Norah says.
miller. I thought you weren’t going to give him any
dinner — to punish him.
mrs. miller (guiltily). Well — in his weakened con-
dition — I thought it best (Then defensively .) But
you needn’t think I haven’t punished him. I’ve given
him pieces of my mind he won’t forget in a hurry. And
I’ve kept reminding him his real punishment was still to
come — that you were coming home to dinner on purpose
— and then he’d learn that you could be terrible stern
when he did such awful things.
miller (stirs uncomfortably). Hmm !
mrs. miller. And that’s just what it’s your duty to
do— punish him good and hard ! The idea of him
daring (Then hastily .) But you be careful how
you go about it, Nat. Remember he’s like you inside
— too sensitive for his own good. And he never would
have done it, I know, if it hadn’t been for that darned little
dunce, Muriel, and her numbskull father — and then all
of us teasing him and hurting his feelings all day — and
then you lost your temper and were so sharp with him
right after dinner before he went out.
miller (resentfully). I see this is going to work round
to where it’s all my fault !
mrs. miller. Now, I didn’t say that, did I ? Don’t
? o losing your temper again. And here’s another thing.
r ou know as well as I, Richard would never have done
119
AH, WILDERNESS !
such a thing alone. Why, he wouldn’t know how ! He
must have been influenced and led by someone.
miller. Yes, I believe that. Did you worm out of
him who it was ? (Then angrily .) By God, I’ll make
whoever it was regret it !
mrs. miller. No, he wouldn’t admit there was any-
one. (Then triumphantly .) But there is one thing I did
worm out of him — and I can tell you it relieved my mind
more’n anything. You know, I was afraid he’d been
with one of those bad women. Well, turns out there
wasn’t any Hedda. She was just out of those books he’s
been reading. He swears he’s never known a Hedda in
his life. And I believe him. Why, he seemed disgusted
with me for having such a notion. (Then lamely '. ) So
somehow — I can’t kind of feel it’s all as bad as I thought
it was. (Then quickly and indignantly .) But it’s bad
enough, goodness knows — and you punish him good
just the same. The idea of a boy of his age !
Shall I go up now and tell him to get dressed, you want
to see him ?
miller (helplessly — and irritably). Yes ! I can’t
waste all day listening to you !
mrs. miller (worriedly). Now you keep your temper,
Nat, remember 1
(She goes out through the front parlour .)
miller. Darn women, anyway ! They always get
you mixed up. Their minds simply don’t know what
logic is ! (Then he notices that Sid is dozing — sharply .)
Sid !
sid (blinking — mechanically). I’ll take the same.
(Then hurriedly.) What’d you say, Nat ?
120
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( caustically ). What I didn’t say was what’ll you
have. ( Irritably .) Do you want to be of some help, or
don’t you ? Then keep awake and try and use your
brains ! This is a damned sight more serious than
Essie has any idea ! She thinks there weren’t any girls
mixed up with Richard’s spree last night — but I happen
to know there were ! (He takes a letter from his pocket .)
Here’s a note a woman left with one of the boys down-
stairs at the office this morning — didn’t ask to see me,
just said give me this. He’d never seen her before —
said she looked like a tart. (He has opened the letter and
reads:) “ Your son got the booze he drank last night
at the Pleasant Beach House. The bartender there
knew he was under age but served him just the same.
He thought it was a good joke to get him soused. If
you have any guts you will run that bastard out of town.”
Well, what do you think of that ? It’s a woman’s hand-
writing — not signed, of course.
sid. She’s one of the babies, all right — judging from
her elegant language.
miller. • See if you recognize the handwriting.
sid (with a reproachful look). Nat, I resent the impli-
cation that I correspond with all the tramps around this
town. (. Looking at the letter.) No, I don’t know who this
one could be. (Handing the letter back '. ) But I deduce
that the lady had a run-in with the barkeep and wants
revenge.
miller (grimly ). And I deduce that before that she
must have picked up Richard — or how would she know
who he was ? — and took him to this dive.
sid. Maybe. The Pleasant Beach House is nothing
121
AH, WILDERNESS !
but a bed house (Quickly!) At least, so I’ve been
told.
miller. That’s just the sort of damned fool thing he
might do to spite Muriel, in the state of mind he was in
— pick up some tart. And she’d try to get him drunk
so
sid. Yes, it might have happened like that — and it
might not. How’re we ever going to prove it ? Every-
one at the Pleasant Beach will lie their heads off.
miller (simply and proudly ). Richard won’t lie.
sid. Well, don’t blame him if he don’t remember
everything that happened last night. (Then sincerely
concerned .) I hope you’re wrong, Nat. That kind of
baby is dangerous for a kid like Dick — in more ways than
one. You know what I mean.
miller (Jrowningly ). Yep — and that’s just what’s got
me worried. Damn it, I’ve got to have a straight talk
with him — about women and all those things. I ought
to have long ago.
sid. Yes. You ought.
miller. I’ve tried to a couple of times. I did it all
right with Wilbur and Lawrence and Arthur, when it
came time — but, hell, with Richard I always get sort of
ashamed of myself and can’t get started right. You feel,
in spite of all his bold talk out of books, that he’s so
darned innocent inside.
sid. I know. I wouldn’t like the job. (Then ajter
a pause — curiously .) How were you figuring to punish
him for his sins ?
122
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (frowning). To be honest with you, Sid, I’m
damned if I know. All depends on what I feel about
what he feels when I first size him up — and then it’ll be
like shooting in the dark.
sid. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say don’t be
too hard on him. (He smiles a little bitterly .) If you
remember, I was always getting punished — and see what
a lot of good it did me !
miller (kindly). Oh, there’s lots worse than you
around, so don’t take to boasting. (Then, at a sound
from the front parlour — with a sigh.) Well, here comes
the Bad Man, I guess.
sid (getting up). I’ll beat it.
(But it is Mrs. Miller who appears in the doorway ,
looking guilty and defensive. Sid sits down
again.)
mrs. miller. I’m sorry, Nat — but he was sound
asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I waited
for him to wake up but he didn’t.
miller (concealing a relief of which he is ashamed —
exasp eratedly). Well, I’ll be double damned ! If you’re
not the
mrs. miller (defensively aggressive). Now don’t lose
your temper at me, Nat Miller ! You know as well as
I do he needs all the sleep he can get to-day — after last
night’s ructions ! Do you want him to be taken down
sick ? And what difference does it make to you, any-
way ? You can see him when you come home for
supper, can’t you ? My goodness, I never saw you so
savage-tempered ! You’d think you couldn’t bear wait-
ing to punish him ?
123
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (outraged). Well, I’ll be eternally
(Then suddenly he laughs.) No use talking, you cer-
tainly take the cake ! But you know darned well I
told you I’m not coming home to supper to-night. I’ve
got a date with Jack Lawson that may mean a lot of new
advertising and it’s important.
mrs. miller. Then you can see him when you do
come home.
miller (covering his evident relief at this respite with a
fuming manner). All right ! All right ! I give up !
I’m going back to the office. (He starts for the front
parlour.) Bring a man all the way back here on a busy
day and then you No consideration
(He disappears., and a moment later the front door
is heard shutting behind kim.)
mrs. miller. Well ! I never saw Nat so bad-
tempered.
sid (with a chuckle). Bad temper, nothing. He’s so
tickled to get out of it for a while he can’t see straight !
mrs. miller (with a sniff). I hope I know him better
than you. (Then fussing about the room , setting this and
that in place, while Sid yawns drowsily and blinks his eyes.)
Sleeping like a baby — so innocent-looking. You’d think
butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. It all goes to show
you never can tell by appearances — not even when it’s
your own child. The idea !
sid (drowsily). Oh, Dick’s all right, Essie. Stop
worrying.
mrs. miller (with a sniff). Of course, you’d say that.
124
AH, WILDERNESS !
I suppose you’ll have him out with you painting the
town red the next thing !
(As she is talking , Richard appears in the doorway
from the sitting-room. He shows no ill effects
from his experience the night before. In fact>
he looks surprisingly healthy. He is dressed in
old clothes that look as if they had been hurriedly
flung on. His expression is one of hang-dog
guilt mingled with a defensive defiance .)
richard (with self-conscious unconcern , ignoring his
mother ). Hello, Sid.
mrs. miller (whirls on him). What are you doing
here, Young Man ? I thought you were asleep !
Seems to me you woke up pretty quick — -just after your
pa left the house !
richard (sulkily). I wasn’t asleep. I heard you in
the room.
mrs. miller (outraged). Do you mean to say you were
deliberately deceiving
richard. I wasn’t deceiving. You didn’t ask if I
was asleep.
mrs. miller. It amounts to the same thing and you
know it 1 It isn’t enough your wickedness last night,
but now you have to take to lying !
richard. I wasn’t lying, Ma. If you’d asked if I
was asleep I’d have said no.
mrs. miller. I’ve a good mind to send you straight
back to bed and make you stay there !
richard. Ah, what for, Ma ? It was only giving
me a headache, lying there.
125
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller. If you’ve got a headache, I guess you
know it doesn’t come from that ! And imagine me
standing there, and feeling sorry for you, like a fool —
even having a run-in with your pa because But you
wait till he comes back to-night ! If you don’t catch it !
richard {sulkily). I don’t care.
mrs. miller. You don’t care ? You talk as if you
weren’t sorry for what you did last night !
richard {defiantly). I’m not sorry.
mrs. miller. Richard ! You ought to be ashamed !
I’m beginning to think you’re hardened in wickedness,
that’s what !
richard {with bitter despondency). I’m not sorry
because I don’t care a darn what I did, or what’s done
to me, or anything about anything ! I won’t do it
again
mrs. miller {seizing on this to relent a bit). Well, I’m
glad to hear you say that, anyway !
richard. But that’s not because I think it was wicked
or any such old-fogy moral notion, but because it wasn’t
any fun. It didn’t make me happy and funny like it does
Uncle Sid
sid {drowsily). What’s that ? Who’s funny ?
richard {ignoring him). It only made me sadder —
and sick — so I don’t see any sense in it.
mrs. miller. Now you’re talking sense ! That’s a
good boy.
richard. But I’m not sorry I tried it once — curing
the soul by means of the senses, as Oscar Wilde says,
126
AH, WILDERNESS !
(Then with despairing pessimism?) But what does it matter
what I do or don’t do ? Life is all a stupid farce ! I’m
through with it ! (With a sinister smile?) It’s lucky
there aren’t any of General Gabler’s pistols around — or
you’d see if I’d stand it much longer !
mrs. miller ( 'worriedly impressed by this threat — but pre-
tending scorn). I don’t know anything about General
Gabler — I suppose that’s more of those darned books —
but you’re a silly gabbler yourself when you talk that
way !
richard (darkly). That’s how little you know about
me.
mrs. miller (giving in to her worry). I wish you
wouldn’t say those terrible things — about life and pistols 1
You don’t want to worry me to death, do you ?
richard (reassuringly stoical now). Y ou needn’t worry,
Ma. It was only my despair talking. But I’m not a
coward. I’ll face — my fate.
mrs. miller (stands looking at him puzzledly — then gives
it up with a sigh). Well, all I can say is you’re the queer-
est boy I ever did hear of ! (Then solicitously , putting her
hand on his forehead?) How’s your headache ? Do you
want me to get you some Bromo Seltzer ?
richard (taken down — disgustedly). No, I don’t !
Aw, Ma, you don’t understand anything !
mrs. miller. Well, I understand this much : It’s
your liver, that’s what ! You’ll take a good dose of salts
to-morrow morning, and no nonsense about it ! (Then
suddenly .) My goodness, I wonder what time it’s getting
to be. I’ve got to go upstreet. (She goes to the front-
127
AH, WILDERNESS !
■parlour doorway — then turns.) You stay here, Richard,
you hear ? Remember you’re not allowed out to-day —
for a punishment.
(She hurries away. Richard sits in tragic gloom.
Sid , without opening his eyes , speaks to him
drowsily.)
sxd. Well, how’s my fellow Rum Pot, as good old
Dowie calls us ? Got a head ?
richard ( startled — sheepishly). Aw, don’t go drag-
ging that up, Uncle Sid. I’m never going to be such a
fool again, I tell you.
sid (with drowsy cynicism — not unmixed with bitterness
at the end). Seems to me I’ve heard someone say that
before. Who could it have been, I wonder ? Why, if
it wasn’t Sid Davis ! Yes, sir, I’ve heard him say that
very thing a thousand times, must be. But then he’s
always fooling ; you can’t take a word he says seriously ;
he’s a card, that Sid is !
richard (darkly). I was desperate, Uncle — even if
she wasn’t worth it. I was wounded to the heart.
sid. I like to the quick better myself — more stylish.
(Then sadly.) But you’re right. Love is hell on a poor
sucker. Don’t I know it ?
(Richard is disgusted and disdains to reply. Sid's
chin sinks on his chest and he begins to breathe
noisily , fast asleep. Richard glances at him
with aversion. There is a sound of someone
on the porch and the screen door is opened and
Mildred enters. She smiles on seeing her
uncle , then gives a start on seeing Richard.)
128
AH, WILDERNESS !
Mildred. Hello 1 Are you allowed up ?
richard. Of course, I’m allowed up.
mildred ( 'comes and sits in her father's chair at right, front,
of table). How did Pa punish you ?
richard. He didn’t. He went back to the office
without seeing me.
mildred. Well, you’ll catch it later. (Then rebuk-
ingly.) And you ought to. If you’d ever seen how
awful you looked last night 1
richard. Ah, forget it, can’t you ?
mildred. Well, are you ever going to do it again,
that’s what I want to know.
richard. What’s that to you ?
mildred ( with suppressed excitement ). Well, if you
don’t solemnly swear you won’t — then I won’t give you
something I’ve got for you.
richard. Don’t try to kid me. You haven’t got
anything.
MILDRED. I have, too.
RICHARD. What ?
mildred. Wouldn’t you like to know 1 I’ll give
you three guesses.
richard (with disdainful dignity ). Don’t bother me.
I’m in no mood to play riddles with kids 1
mildred. Oh, well, if you’re going to get snippy 1
Anyway, you haven’t promised yet.
a . w . 1 29
1
AH, WILDERNESS S
richard (a -prey to keen curiosity now). I promise.
What is it ?
mildred. What would you like best in the world ?
richard. I don’t know. What ?
mildred. And you pretend to be in love ! If I told
Muriel that !
richard ( breathlessly ). Is it — from her ?
mildred ( 'laughing ). Well, I guess it’s a shame to keep
you guessing. Yes. It is from her. I was walking
past her place just now when I saw her waving from their
parlour window, and I went up and she said give this to
Dick, and she didn’t have a chance to say anything else
because her mother called her and said she wasn’t allowed
to have company. So I took it — and here it is. ( She
gives him a letter folded, many times into a tiny square.
Richard opens it with a trembling eagerness and reads.
Mildred watches him curiously — then sighs affectedly .) Gee,
it must be nice to be in love like you are — all with one
person.
richard (his eyes shining). Gee, Mid, do you know
what she says — that she didn’t mean a word in that other
letter. Her old man made her write it. And she loves
me and only me and always will, no matter how they
punish her !
mildred. My ! I’d never think she had that much
spunk.
richard. Huh ! You don’t know her ! Think I
could fall in love with a girl that was afraid to say her soul’s
her own ? I should say not ! (Then more gleefully still.)
And she’s going to try and sneak out and meet me to-
13°
AH, WILDERNESS !
night. She says she thinks she can do it. (Then sud-
denly feeling this enthusiasm before Mildred is entirely the
wrong note for a cynical -pessimist — with an affected bitter
laughl) Ha ! I knew darned well she couldn’t hold
out — that she’d ask to see me again. (He misquotes
cynically .) “ Women never know when the curtain has
fallen. They always want another act.”
mildred. Is that so, Smarty ?
richard (as if he were weighing the matter). I don’t
know whether I’ll consent to keep this date or not.
mildred. Well, I know ! You’re not allowed out,
you silly 1 So you can’t !
richard ( dropping all pretense — defiantly). Can’t I,
though ! You wait and see if I can’t ! I’ll see her
to-night if it’s the last thing I ever do ! I don’t care
how I’m punished after !
mildred (admiringly). Goodness ! I never thought
you had such nerve !
richard. You promise to keep your face shut. Mid
— until after I’ve left — then you can tell Pa and Ma
where I’ve gone — I mean, if they’re worrying I’m off
like last night.
mildred. All right. Only you’ve got to do some-
thing for me when I ask.
richard. ’Course I will. ( Then excitedly .) And
say, Mid 1 Right now’s the best chance for me to get
away — while everyone’s out ! Ma’ll. be coming back
soon and she’ll keep watching me like a cat (He
starts for the back parlour.) I’m going. I’ll sneak out
the back.
ah, WILDERNESS !
MILDRED (excitedly). _ But what’ll you do till night-
time ? It’s ages to wait.
richard. What do I care how long I wait ! (In-
unseh sincere now.) I’ll think of her— and dream . Id
wait a million years and never mind it—for her ! (He
rives his sister a superior scornful glanced) The trouble
with you is, you don’t understand what love means !
(He disappears through the back parlour. Mildred
looks after him admiringly. Sid puffs and
begins to snore peacefully .)
Curtain
SCENE TWO
scene. A strip of beach along the harbour. At left , a bank
of dark earth , running half-diagonally back along the
beach , marking the line where the sand of the beach,
ends and fertile land begins. The top of the bank is
grassy and the trailing boughs of willow trees extend
out over it and over a part of the beach. At left, front,
is a path leading up the bank , between the willows.
On the beach, at centre , front, a white, flat-bottomed
rowboat is drawn up, its bow about touching the bank,
the painter trailing up the bank, evidently made fast to
the trunk of a willow. Half-way down the sky, at
rear, left, the crescent of the new moon casts a soft,
mysterious, caressing light over everything. The sand
of the beach shimmers palely. The forward half (left
of centre) of the rowboat is in the deep shadow cast by
the willow, the stern section is in moonlight , In the dis-
132
AH, WILDERNESS !.
tance> the orchestra of a summer hotel can he heard very
faintly at intervals .
Richard is discovered sitting sideways on the gunwale
of the rowboat near the stern. He is facing left , watch-
ing the path. He is in a great state of anxious expec-
tancy , squirming about uncomfortably on the narrow
gunwale , kicking at the sand restlessly , twirling his
straw hat , with a bright-coloured band in stripes , around
on his finger.
richard [thinking aloud). Must be nearly nine. . . .
I can hear the Town Hall clock strike, it’s so still to-
night . . . Gee, I’ll bet Ma had a fit when she found
out I’d sneaked out . . . I’ll catch hell when I get
back, but it’ll be worth it ... if only Muriel turns
up . . . she didn’t say for certain she could . . . gosh,
I wish she’d come ! ... am I sure she wrote nine ? . . .
[He puts the straw hat on the seat amidships and pulls the
folded letter out of his pocket and peers at it in the moon-
light .) Yes, it’s nine, all right. [He starts to put the note
back in his pocket , then stops and kisses it — then shoves it
away hastily , sheepish , looking around him shamefacedly , as
if afraid he were being observed .) Aw, that’s silly . . .
no, it isn’t either . . . not when you’re really in love.
. . . (He jumps to his feet restlessly .) Darn it, I wish
she’d show up 1 . . . think of something else . . .
that’ll make the time pass quicker . . . where was I
this time last night ? . . . waiting outside the Pleasant
Beach House . . . Belle ... ah, forget her ! . . .
now, when Muriel’s coming . . . that’s a fine time to
think of ! . . . but you hugged and kissed her
. .. . not until I was drunk, I didn’t . . . and then it
was all showing off . . . darned fool ! . . . and I didn’t
go upstairs with her . . . even if she was pretty . . .
*33
AH, WILDERNESS !
aw, she wasn’t pretty . . . she was all painted up . . .
she was just a whore . . . she was everything dirty
. . . Muriel’s a million times prettier anyway . . .
Muriel and I will go upstairs . . . when we’re married
... but that will be beautiful . . . but I oughtn’t
even to think of that yet . . . it’s not right ... I’d
never — now . . . and she’d never . . . she’s a decent
girl ... I couldn’t love her if she wasn’t . . . but
after we’re married. . . . (He gives a little shiver of pas-
sionate longing — then resolutely turns his mind away from
these improper , almost desecrating thoughts .) That damned
barkeep kicking me . . . I’ll bet you if I hadn’t been
drunk I’d have given him one good punch in the nose,
even if he could have licked me after ! . . . (Then with
a shiver of shamefaced revulsion and self -disgust.) Aw,
you deserved a kick in the pants . . . making such a
darned slob of yourself . . . reciting the Ballad of
Reading Gaol to those lowbrows ! . . . you must have
been a fine sight when you got home ! . . . having to
be put to bed and getting sick ! . . . Phaw ! . . .
(He squirms disgustedly .) Think of something else,
can’t you ? . . . recite something ... see if you
remember . . .
“ Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,
From passionate pain to deadlier delight —
I am too young to live without desire,
Too young art thou to waste this summer night ”
. . . gee, that’s a peach ! . . . I’ll have to memorize
the rest and recite it to Muriel the next time. . . .
I wish I could write poetry . . . about her and me. . . .
(He sighs and stares around him at the nightl) Gee, it’s
beautiful to-night ... as if it was a special night . . .
for me and Muriel. . . . Gee, I love to-night. ... I
134
AH, WILDERNESS !
love the sand, and the trees, and the grass, and the water
and the sky, and the moon . . . it’s all in me and I’m
in it . . . God, it’s so beautiful ! (He stands staring at
the moon with a rapt face. From the distance the Town
Hall clock begins to strike. This brings him back to earth
with a start.) There’s nine now. . . . (He peers at
the path apprehensively .) I don’t see her . . . she must
have got caught. . . . (Almost tearfully .) Gee, I hate
to go home and catch hell . . . without having seen her !
. . . (Then calling a manly cynicism to his aid.) Aw, who
ever heard of a woman ever being on time. ... I
ought to know enough about life by this time not to
expect . . . (Then with sudden excitement .) There she
comes now. . . . Gosh ! (He heaves a huge sigh of
relief — then recites dramatically to himself ’, his eyes on the
approaching figure .)
“ And lo my love, mine own soul’s heart, more dear
Than mine own soul, more beautiful than God,
Who hath my being between the hands of her ”
( 'Then hastily .) Mustn’t let her know I’m so tickled.
... I ought to be about that first letter, anyway . . .
if women are too sure of you, they treat you like slaves
... let her suffer, for a change. . . . (He starts to
stroll around with exaggerated carelessness , turning his back
on the path , hands in pockets , whistling with insouciance
“ Waiting at the Church .”
(Muriel McComber enters from down the path , left
front. She is fifteen , going on sixteen. She
is a pretty girl with a plump, graceful little
figure , fluffy, light-brown hair , big naive won-
dering dark eyes , a round , dimpled face , a
melting drawly voice. Just now she is in a
l 3S
AH, WILDERNESS !
great thrilled state of timid adventurousness.
She hesitates in the shadow at the foot of the
path) waiting for Richard to see her ; but he
resolutely goes on whistling with back turned ,
and she has to call him.)
muriel. Oh, Dick !
richard (turns around with an elaborate simulation of
being disturbed in the midst of profound meditation). Oh,
hello. Is it nine already ? Gosh, time passes — when
you’re thinking.
muriel ( coming toward him as far as the edge of the
shadow — disappointedly). I thought you’d be waiting
right here at the end of the path. I’ll bet you’d for-
gotten I was even coming.
richard (strolling a little toward her but not too far —
carelessly). No, I hadn’t forgotten, honest. But I got
to thinking about life.
muriel. You might think of me for a change, after
all the risk I’ve run to see you ! (Hesitating timidly on
the edge of the shadow.) Dick 1 You come here to me.
I’m afraid to go out in that bright moonlight where
anyone might see me.
richard ( coming toward her — scornfully). Aw, there
you go again — always scared of life !
muriel ( indignantly ). Dick Miller, I do think you’ve
got an awful nerve to say that after all the risks I’ve, run
making this date and then sneaking out ! You didn’t
take the trouble to sneak any letter to me, I notice 1
richard. No, because after your first letter, I thought
everything was dead and past between us.
136
AH, WILDERNESS !
Muriel. And I’ll bet you didn’t care one little bit !
(On the verge of humiliated tears.) Oh, I was a fool ever
to come here ! I’ve got a good notion to go right home
and never speak to you again ! (She half turns back
toward the path.)
richard (frightened — immediately becomes terribly sin-
cere — -grabbing her hand). Aw, don’t go, Muriel !
Please ! I didn’t mean anything like that, honest I
didn’t ! Gee, if you knew how broken-hearted I was
by that first letter, and how darned happy your second
letter made me !
muriel ( happily relieved — but appreciates she has the
upper hand now and doesn't relent at once). I don’t believe
you.
richard. You ask Mid how happy I was. She
can prove it.
muriel. She’d say anything you told her to. I don’t
care anything about what she’d say. It’s you. You’ve
got to swear to me
richard. I swear !
muriel (demurely). Well then, all right, I’ll believe
you.
richard (his eyes on her face lovingly — genuine adoration
in his voice). Gosh, you’re pretty to-night, Muriel ! It
seems ages since we’ve been together ! If you knew
how I’ve suffered !
muriel. I did, too.
richard ( unable to resist falling into his tragic literary pose
for a moment). The despair in my soul (He recites
dramatically :) “ Something was dead in each of us,
137
AH, WILDERNESS !
And what was dead was Hope ! ” That was me ! My
hope of happiness was dead ! (Then with sincere boyish
fervour .) Gosh, Muriel, it sure is wonderful to be with
you again ! (He puts a timid arm around her awkwardly .)
muriel (shyly). I’m glad — it makes you happy. I’m
happy, too.
richard. Can’t I — won’t you let me kiss you —
now ? Please ! (He bends his face toward hers.)
muriel (ducking her head away — timidly). No. You
mustn’t. Don’t
richard. Aw, why can’t I ?
muriel. Because — I’m afraid.
richard (discomfited — taking his arm from around her —
a bit sulky and impatient with her). Aw, that’s what you
always say ! You’re always so afraid ! Aren’t you
ever going to let me ?
muriel. I will — sometime.
richard. When ?
muriel. Soon, maybe.
richard. To-night, will you ?
muriel (coyly). I’ll see.
richard. Promise ?
muriel. I promise — maybe.
richard. All right. You remember you’ve
promised. (Then coaxingly :) Aw, don’t let’s stand here.
Come on out and we can sit down in the boat.
muriel ( hesitantly ). It’s so bright out there.
138
AH, WILDERNESS !
richard. No one’ll see. You know there’s never
anyone around here at night.
muriel (illogically). I know there isn’t. That’s why
I thought it would be the best place. But there might
be someone.
richard (i taking her hand and tugging at it gently).
There isn’t a soul. [Muriel steps out a little and looks up
and down fearfully. Richard goes on insistently .) Aw,
what’s the use of a moon if you can’t see it 1
muriel. But it’s only a new moon. That’s not
much to look at.
richard. But I want to see you. I can’t here in the
shadow. I want to — drink in — all your beauty.
muriel [can't resist this). Well, all right — only I
can’t stay only a few minutes. ( She lets him lead her
toward the stern of the boat.)
richard (pleadingly ). Aw, you can stay a little while,
can’t you ? Please ! (He helps her in and she settles herself
in the stern seat of the boat , facing diagonally left front.)
muriel. A little while. (He sits beside her.) But
I’ve got to be home in bed again pretending to be asleep
by ten o’clock. That’s the time Pa and Ma come up
to bed, as regular as clockwork, and Ma always looks
into my room.
richard. But you’ll have oodles of time to do that.
muriel (excitedly). Dick, you have no idea what I
went through to get here to-night ! My, but it was
exciting ! You know Pa’s punishing me by sending
me to bed at eight sharp, and I had to get all undressed
and into bed ’cause at half-past he sends Ma up to make
139
AH, WILDERNESS !
sure I’ve obeyed, and she came up, and I pretended to
be asleep, and she went down again, and I got up and
dressed in such a hurry — I must look a sight, don’t I ?
richard. You do not ! You look wonderful !
Muriel. And then I sneaked down the back stairs.
And the pesky old stairs squeaked, and my heart was
in my mouth, I was so scared, and then I sneaked out
through the back yard, keeping in the dark under the
trees, and My, but it was exciting ! Dick, you
don’t realize how I’ve been punished for your sake.
Pa’s been so mean and nasty, I’ve almost hated him !
richard. And you don’t realize what I’ve been
through for you — and what I’m in for — for sneaking
out (Then darkly .) And for what I did last night
— what your letter made me do !
muriel (made terribly curious by his ominous tone).
What did my letter make you do ?
richard ( beginning to glory in this). It’s too long a
story — and let the dead past bury its dead. (Then with
real feeling.) Only it isn’t past, I can tell you ! What
I’ll catch when Pa gets hold of me !
muriel. Tell me, Dick ! Begin at the beginning
and tell me !
richard (tragically). Well, after your old — your
father left our place I caught holy hell from Pa.
muriel. Dick ! You mustn’t swear !
richard (sombrely). Hell is the only word that can
describe it. And on top of that, to torture me more, he
gave me your letter. After I’d read that I didn’t want
to live any more. Life seemed like a tragic farce.
140
AH, WILDERNESS !
muriel. I’m so awful sorry, Dick — honest I am !
But you might have known I’d never write that unless
richard. I thought your love for me was dead. I
thought you’d never loved me, that you’d only been
-cruelly mocking me — to torture me !
muriel. Dick 1 I’d never ! You know I’d never !
richard. I wanted to die. I sat and brooded about
death. Finally I made up my mind I’d kill myself.
muriel ( excitedly ). Dick ! You didn’t !
richard. I did, too ! If there’d been one of Hedda
Gabler’s pistols around, you’d have seen if I wouldn’t
have done it beautifully ! I thought, when I’m dead,
she’ll be sorry she ruined my life !
muriel ( cuddling up a little to him). If you ever had !
I’d have died, too ! Honest, I would !
richard. But suicide is the act of a coward. That’s
what stopped me. (Then with a hitter change of tone.)
And anyway, I thought to myself, she isn’t worth it.
muriel (huffily). That’s a nice thing to say !
richard. Well, if you meant what was in that letter,
you wouldn’t have been worth it, would you ?
muriel. But I’ve told you Pa
richard. So I said to myself, I’m through with
; women ; they’re all alike !
muriel. I’m not.
richard. And I thought, what difference does it
make what I do now ? I might as well forget her and
lead the pace that kills, and drown my sorrows ! You
141
AH, WILDERNESS !
know I had eleven dollars saved up to buy you some-
thing for your birthday, but I thought, she’s dead to
me now and why shouldn’t I throw it away ? (Then
hastily .) I’ve still got almost five left, Muriel, and I can
get you something nice with that.
muriel ( excitedly ). What do I care about your old
presents ? You tell me what you did !
richard ( darkly again). After it was dark, I sneaked
out and went to a low dive I know about.
muriel. Dick Miller, I don’t believe you ever !
richard. You ask them at the Pleasant Beach House
if I didn’t ! They won’t forget me in a hurry !
muriel ( 'impressed and horrified). You went there ?
Why, that’s a terrible place ! Pa says it ought to be
closed by the police !
richard (darkly). I said it was a dive, didn’t I ?
It’s a “ secret house of shame.” And they let me into a
secret room behind the bar-room. There wasn’t anyone
there but a Princeton Senior I know — he belongs to
Tiger Inn and he’s full-back on the football team — and
he had two chorus girls from New York with him, and
they were all drinking champagne.
muriel (disturbed by the entrance of the chorus girls).
Dick Miller ! I hope you didn’t notice
richard (carelessly). I had a highball by myself and
then I noticed one of the girls — the one that wasn’t with
the full-back — looking at me. She had strange-looking
eyes. And then she asked me if I wouldn’t drink cham-
pagne with them and come and sit with her.
142
AH, WILDERNESS !
Muriel. She must have been a nice thing ! ( Then
a bit falteringly .) And did — you ?
richard (with tragic bitterness). Why shouldn’t I,
when you’d told me in that letter you’d never see me
again ?
Muriel (almost tearfully). But you ought to have
known Pa made me
richard. I didn’t know that then. (Then rubbing it
in.) Her name was Belle. She had yellow hair — the
kind that burns and stings you !
muriel. I’ll bet it was dyed !
richard. She kept smoking one cigarette after
another — but that’s nothing for a chorus girl.
muriel (indignantly). She was low and bad, that’s
what she was or she couldn’t be a chorus girl, and her
smoking cigarettes proves it ! (Then falteringly again!)
And then what happened ?
richard (carelessly). Oh, we just kept drinking cham-
pagne — I bought a round — and then I had a fight with
the barkeep and knocked him down because he’d insulted
her. He was a great big thug but
muriel (huffily). I don’t see how he could — insult that
kind ! And why did you fight for her ? Why didn’t the
Princeton full-back who’d brought them there ? He
must have been bigger than you.
richard ( stopped for a moment — then quickly). He was
too drunk by that time.
muriel. And were you drunk ?
143
AH, WILDERNESS !
richard. Only a little then. I was worse later.
( Proudly .) You ought to have seen me when I got
home ! I was on the verge of delirium tremens!
muriel. I’m glad I didn’t see you. You must have
been awful. I hate people who get drunk. I’d have
hated you 1
richard. Well, it was all your fault, wasn’t it ? If
you hadn’t written that letter
muriel. But I’ve told you I didn’t mean (Then
faltering but fascinated .) But what happened with that
Belle — after — before you went home ?
richard. Oh, we kept drinking champagne and she
said she’d fallen in love with me at first sight and she
came and sat on my lap and kissed me.
muriel (stiffening). Oh !
richard (quickly, afraid he has gone too far). But it
was only all in fun, and then we just kept on drinking
champagne, and finally I said good night and came home.
muriel. And did you kiss her ?
richard. No, I didn’t.
muriel (distractedly). You did, too ! You’re lying
and you know it. You did, too ! (Then tearfully.)
And there I was right at that time lying in bed not able
to sleep, wondering how I was ever going to see you again
and crying my eyes out, while you ! (She suddenly
jumps to her feet in a tearful fury.) I hate you ! I
wish you were dead ! I’m going home this minute !
I never want to lay eyes on you again ! And this time
I mean it !
144
AH, WILDERNESS !
(She tries to jump out of the boat, but he holds her
back. All the pose has dropped from him
now and he is in a frightened state of contrition?)
richard (imploringly). Muriel ! Wait ! Listen 1
muriel. I don’t want to listen ! Let me go ! If
you don’t I’ll bite your hand !
richard. I won’t let you go ! You’ve got to let
me explain 1 I never l Ouch !
(For Muriel has bitten his hand and it hurts , and,
stung by the pain, he lets go instinctively, and
she jumps quickly out of the boat and starts
running toward the path. Richard calls after
her with bitter despair and hurt?)
All right ! Go if you want to — if you haven’t the
decency to let me explain ! I hate you, too 1 I’ll go
and see Belle !
muriel (seeing he isn't following her, stops at the foot of
the path — defiantly). Well, go and see her — if that’s the
kind of girl you like ! What do I care ? (Then as he
only stares before him broodingly, sitting dejectedly in the stem
of the boat, a pathetic figure of injured grief?) You can’t
explain ! What can you explain ? You owned up you
kissed her !
richard. I did not. I said she kissed me.
muriel (scornfully, but drifting back a step in his direc-
tion). And I suppose you just sat and let yourself be
kissed ! Tell that to the Marines !
richard (injuredly). All right ! If you’re going to
call me a liar every word I say-
a.w. 145
K
AH, WILDERNESS !
Muriel ( drifting back another step). I didn’t call you a
liar. I only meant — it sounds fishy. Don’t you know
it does ?
richard. I don’t know anything. I only know I
wish I was dead !
muriel {gently reproving). You oughtn’t to say that.
It’s wicked. (Then after a pause l) And I suppose
you’ll tell me you didn’t fall in love with her ?
richard ( scornfully ). I should say not ! Fall in
love with that kind of girl ! What do you take me for ?
Muriel Q practically ). How do you know what you did
if you drank so much champagne ?
richard. I kept my head — with her. I’m not a
sucker, no matter what you think !
muriel ( drifting nearer). Then you didn’t — love her ?
richard. I hated her ! She wasn’t even pretty !
And I had a fight with her before I left, she got so fresh.
I told her I loved you and never could love anyone else,
and for her to leave me alone.
muriel. But you said just now you were going to
see her
richard. That was only bluff. I wouldn’t — unless
you left me. Then I wouldn’t care what I did — any
more than I did last night. {Then suddenly defiant'. )
And what if I did kiss her once or twice ? I only did it
to get back at you !
muriel. Dick !
richard. You’re a fine one to blame me — when it
was all your fault ! Why can’t you be fair ? Didn’t
146
AH, WILDERNESS !
I think you were out of my life for ever ? Hadn’t you
written me you were ? Answer me that 3
muriel. But I’ve told you a million times that
Pa
richard. Why didn’t you have more sense than to
let him make you write it ? Was it my fault you didn’t ?
muriel. It was your fault for being so stupid ! You
ought 10 have known he stood right over me and told me
each word to write. If I’d refused, it would o.Jv have
made everything worse. I had to pretend, so I’d get a
chance to see you. Don’t you see, Silly ? And I had
sand enough to sneak out to meet you to-night, didn’t I ?
(He doesn't answer. She moves nearer .) Still I can see
how you felt the way you did — and maybe I am to blame
for that. So I’ll forgive and forget, Dick — if you’ll
swear to me you didn’t even think of loving that
richard (eagerly). I didn’t ! I swear, Muriel. I
couldn’t. I love you !
muriel. Well, then — I still love you.
richard. Then come back here, why don’t you ?
muriel (coyly). It’s getting late.
richard. It’s not near half-p tst yet.
muriel ( comes back and sits dvwn by him shyly). All
right — only I’ll have to go soon, Dick. (He puts his arm
around her. She cuddles up close to him.) I’m sorry — I
hurt your hand.
richard. That was nothing. It felt wonderful —
even to have you bite !
muriel f impulsively takes his hand and kisses it).
r 47
AH, WILDERNESS !
There ! That’ll cure it. (She is overcome by confusion
at her boldness .)
richard. You shouldn’t — waste that — on my hand.
( Then tremblingly .) You said — you’d let me
muriel. I said, maybe.
richard. Please, Muriel. You know — I want it so !
muriel. Will it wash off — her kisses — make you
forget you ever — for always ?
richard. I should say so ! I’d never remember
— anything but it — never want anything but it — ever
again.
muriel (shyly lifting her lips). Then — all right — Dick.
(He kisses her tremblingly and for a moment their lips remain
together. Then she lets her head sink on his shoulder and
sighs softly.) The moon is beautiful, isn’t it ?
RICHARD (kissing her hair). Not as beautiful as you !
Nothing is ! (Then after a pause.) Won’t it be won-
derful when we’re married ?
muriel. Yes — but it’s so long to wait.
richard. Perhaps I needn’t go to Yale. Perhaps
Pa will give me a job. Then I’d soon be making
enough to ' S
muriel. You better do what your pa thinks best —
and I’d like you to be at Yale. (Then patting his face.)
Poor you ! Do you think he’ll punish you awful ?
richard (intensely). I don’t know and I don’t care !
Nothing would have kept me from seeing you to-night
— not if I’d had to crawl over red-hot coals ! (Then
falling back on Swinburne — but with passionate sincerity.)
148
AH, WILDERNESS !
You have my being between the hands of you 1 You
are “ my love, mine own soul’s heart, more dear than
mine own soul, more beautiful than God 1 ”
Muriel ( shocked and delighted). Ssshh 1 It’s wrong
to say that.
richard ( adoringly ). Gosh, but I love you ! Gosh,
I love you — Darling !
muriel. I love you, too — Sweetheart !
(They kiss. Then she lets her head sink on his
shoulder again and they both sit in a rapt
trance , staring at the moon '. )
(After a pause — dreamily .) Where’ll we go on our honey-
moon, Dick ? To Niagara Falls ?
richard ( scornfully ). That dump where all the silly
fools go ? I should say not ! (With passionate romanti-
cism .) No, we’ll go to some far-off wonderful place 1
(He calls on Kipling to help himl) Somewhere out on the
Long Trail — the trail that is always new — on the road
to Mandalay ! We’ll watch the dawn come up like
thunder out of China 1
muriel (hazily but happily). That’ll be wonderful,
won’t it ?
Curtain
SCENE THREE
scene. The sitting-room of the Miller house again — about
i o o'clock the same night. Miller is sitting in his rocker
at left., front , of table , his wife in the rocker at right ,
front , of table. Moonlight shines through the screen
149
AH, WILDERNESS !
door at right , rear. Only the green-shaded reading
lamp is lit and by its light Miller, his specs on, is reading
a book while his wife, sewing basket in lap , is working
industriously on a doily. Mrs. Miller's face wears an
expression of unworried content. Miller's face has also
lost its look of harassed preoccupation , although he still
is a prey to certain misgivings , when he allows himself
to think of them. Several books are piled on the table
by his elbow , the books that have been confiscated from
Richard.
miller ( chuckles at something he reads — then closes the
book and puts it on the table. Mrs. Miller looks up from
her sewing). This Shaw’s a comical cuss — even if his
ideas are so crazy they oughtn’t to allow them to be
printed. And that Swinburne’s got a fine swing to his
poetry — if he’d only choose some other subjects besides
loose women.
mrs. miller ( smiling teasingly ). I can see where you’re
becoming corrupted by those books, too — pretending to
read them out of duty to Richard, when your nose has
been glued to the page !
miller. No, no — but I’ve got to be honest. There’s
something to them. That Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,
now. I read that over again and liked it even better
than I had before — parts of it, that is, where it isn’t all
about boozing.
mrs. miller (has been busy with her own thoughts during
this last — with a deep sigh of relief). My, but I’m glad
Mildred told me where Richard went off to. I’d have
worried my heart out if she hadn’t. But now, it’s all
right.
miller (frowning a little). I’d hardly go so far as to
150
AH, WILDERNESS !
say that. Just because we know he’s all right to-night
doesn’t mean last night is wiped out. He’s still got to
be punished for that.
mrs. miller ( defensively ). Well, if you ask me, I think
after the way I punished him all day, and the way I know
he’s punished himself, he’s had about all he deserves.
I’ve told you how sorry he was, and how he said he’d
never touch liquor again. It didn’t make him feel happy
like Sid, but only sad and sick, so he didn’t see anything
in it for him.
miller. Well, if he’s really got that view of it driven
into his skull, I don’t know but I’m glad it all happened.
That’ll protect him more than a thousand lectures — -just
horse sense about himself. (Then frowning again.) Still,
I can’t let him do such things and go scot-free. And
then ; besides, there’s another side to it (He stops
abruptly?)
mrs. miller ( uneasily ). What do you mean, another
side ?
miller (hastily). I mean, discipline. There’s got to
be some discipline in a family. I don’t want hirn to get
the idea he’s got a stuffed shirt at the head of the table.
No, he’s got to be punished, if only to make the lesson
stick in his mind, and I’m going to tell him he can’t go
to Yale, seeing he’s so undependable.
mrs. miller (up in arms at once). Not go to Yale ! I
guess he can go to Yale ! Every man of your means in
town is sending his boys to college ! What would folks
think of you ? You let Wilbur go, and you’d have let
Lawrence, only he didn’t want to, and you’re letting
Arthur ! If our other children can get the benefit of
l S l
AH, WILDERNESS !
a college education, you’re not going to pick on
Richard
miller. Hush up, for God’s sake ! If you’d let me
finish what I started to say ! I said I’d tell him that
now — bluff — then later on I’ll change my mind, if he
behaves himself.
MRS. miller. Oh well, if that’s all ( Then defen-
sively again.) But it’s your duty to give him every bene-
fit. He’s got an exceptional brain, that boy has ! He’s
proved it by the way he likes to read all those deep plays
and books and poetry.
miller. But I thought you (He stops, grinning
helplessly.)
mrs. miller. You thought I what ?
miller. Never mind.
mrs. miller (sniffs, but thinks it better to let this pass).
You mark my words, that boy’s going to turn out to be
a great lawyer, or a great doctor, or a great writer, or
miller (grinning ). You agree he’s going to be great,
anyway.
mrs. miller. Yes, I most certainly have a lot of faith
in Richard.
miller. Well, so have I, as far as that goes.
mrs. miller (after a paused— judicially). And as for
his being in love with Muriel, I don’t see but what it
might work out real well. Richard could do worse.
miller. But I thought you had no use for her,
thought she was stupid.
152
AH, WILDERNESS !
mrs. miller. Well, so I did, but if she’s good for
Richard and he wants her (Then inconsequentially .)
Ma used to say you weren’t overbright, but she changed
her mind when she saw I didn’t care if you were or not.
miller (not exactly -pleased, by this). Well, I’ve been
bright enough to
mrs. miller (going on as if he had not spoken ). And
Muriel’s real cute-looking, I have to admit that. Takes
after her mother. Alice Briggs was the prettiest girl
before she married.
miller. Yes, and Muriel will get big as a house after
she’s married, the same as her mother did. That’s the
trouble. A man never can tell what he’s letting himself
in for (He stops , feeling his wife's eyes fixed on him
with indignant suspicion .)
mrs. miller (sharply). I’m not too fat and don’t you
say it !
miller. Who was talking about you ?
mrs. miller. And I’d rather have some flesh on my
bones than be built like a string bean and bore a hole in
a chair every time I sat down — like some people !
miller ( ignoring the insult — - flatteringly ). Why, no
one’d ever call you fat, Essie. You’re only plump, like
a good figure ought to be.
mrs. miller (childishly pleased — - gratefully giving tit for
tat). Well, you’re not skinny, either— only slender —
and I think you’ve been putting on weight lately, too.
(Having thus squared matters she takes up her
sewing again. A pause. Then Miller asks
incredulously?)
l 53
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller. You don’t mean to tell me you’re actually
taking this Muriel crush of Richard’s seriously, do you ?
I know it’s a good thing to encourage right now but —
pshaw, why, Richard’ll probably forget all about her
before he’s away six months, and she’ll have forgotten
him.
mrs. miller. Don’t be so cynical. (Then, after a
pause, thoughtfully .) Well, anyway, he’ll always have it
to remember — no matter what happens after — and that’s
something.
miller. You bet that’s something. (Then with a
grin.) You surprise me at times with your deep wisdom.
mrs. miller. You don’t give me credit for ever
having common sense, that’s why. ( She goes back to her
sewing.)
miller (after a pause). Where’d you say Sid and Lily
had gone off to ?
mrs. miller. To the beach to listen to the band.
(She sighs sympathetically .) Poor Lily ! Sid’ll never
change, and she’ll never marry him. But she seems to
get some queer satisfaction out of fussing over him like
a hen that’s hatched a duck — though Lord knows I
wouldn’t in her shoes !
miller. Arthur’s up with Elsie Rand, I suppose ?
mrs. miller. Of course.
miller. Where’s Mildred ?
mrs. miller. Out walking with her latest. I’ve for-
got who it is. I can’t keep track of them. (She smiles.)
154
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller {smiling). Then, from all reports, we seem to
be completely surrounded by love !
mrs. miller. Well, we’ve had our share, haven't
we ? We don’t have to begrudge it to our children.
( Then has a sudden thought .) But I’ve done all this talk-
ing about Muriel and Richard and clean forgot how wild
old McComber was against it. But he’ll get over that,
I suppose.
miller ( with a chuckle). He has already. I ran into
him upstreet this afternoon and he was meek as pie. He
backed water and said he guessed I was right. Richard
had just copied stuff out of books, and kids would be kids,
and so on. So I came off my high horse a bit — but not
too far — and I guess all that won’t bother anyone any
more. (Then rubbing his hands together — with a boyish
grin of pleasure .) And I told you about getting that
business from Lawson, didn’t I ? It’s been a good day,
Essie — a darned good day !
(From the hall beyond the front parlour the sound
of the front door being opened and shut is
heard. Mrs. Miller leans forward to look ,
pushing her specs up.)
mrs. miller (i In a whisper). It’s Richard.
miller ( immediately assuming an expression of becoming
gravity). Hmm.
(He takes off his spectacles and puts them back in their
case and straightens himself in his chair.
Richard comes slowly in from the front parlour.
He walks like one in a trance , his eyes shining
with a dreamy happiness , his spirit still too
exalted to be conscious of his surroundings , or
l SS
AH, WILDERNESS !
to remember the threatened ■punishment. He
carries his straw hat dangling in his hand ,
quite unaware of its existence .)
rxchard ( dreamily , like a ghost addressing fellow shades).
Hello.
mrs. miller ( staring at him worriedly). Hello, Richard.
miller ( sizing him up shrewdly ). Hello, Son.
{Richard moves past his mother and comes to the far
corner , left front , where the light is dimmest ,
and sits down on the sofa, and stares before
him , his hat dangling in his hand.)
mrs. miller ( with frightened suspicion now). Good-
ness, he acts queer ! Nat, you don’t suppose he’s
been ?
miller (with a reassuring smile). No. It’s love, not
liquor, this time.
mrs. miller (only partly reassured — sharply). Richard !
What’s the matter with you ? (He comes to himself with
a start. She goes on scoldingly.) How many times have
I told you to hang up your hat in the hall when you come
in ! (He looks at his hat as if he were surprised at its exist-
ence. She gets up fussily and goes to him.) Here. Give
it to me. I’ll hang it up for you this once. And what
are you sitting over here in the dark for ? Don’t forget
your father’s been waiting to talk to you 1
(She comes back to the table and he follows her , still
half in a dream , and stands by his father's
chair. Mrs. Miller starts for the hall with
his hat.)
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller {quietly but firmly now). You better leave
Richard and me alone for a while, Essie.
mrs. miller (turns to stare at him apprehensively).
Well — all right. I’ll go sit on the piazza. Call me if
you want me. ( Then a bit pleadingly .) But you’ll
remember all I’ve said, Nat, won’t you ?
(Miller nods reassuringly. She disappears through
the front parlour. Richard , keenly conscious
of himself as the about-to-be-sentenced criminal
by this time , looks guilty and a bit defiant ,
searches his father s expressionless face with
uneasy side glances , and steels himself for what
is coming .)
miller ( casually , indicating Mrs. Miller's rocker). Sit
down, Richard.
( Richard slumps awkwardly into the chair and sits
in a self-conscious , unnatural position. Miller
sizes him up keenly — then suddenly smiles and
asks with quiet mockery .)
Well, how are the vine leaves in your hair this evening ?
richard ( totally unprepared for this approach — shame-
facedly mutters). I don’t know, Pa.
miller. Turned out to be poison ivy, didn’t they ?
(Then kindly.) But you needn’t look so alarmed. I’m
not going to read you any temperance lecture. That’d
bore me more than it would you. And, in spite of your
damn foolishness last night, I’m still giving you credit
for having brains. So I’m pretty sure anything I could
say to you you’ve already said to yourself.
richard (his head down — humbly). I know I was a
darned fool.
l S7
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller ( thinking it well to rub in this aspect — disgustedly).
You sure were — not only a fool but a downright, stupid,
disgusting fool !
( Richard squirms, his head still lower.)
It was bad enough for you to let me and Arthur see you,
but to appear like that before your mother and Mildred
! And I wonder if Muriel would think you were
so fine if she ever saw you as you looked and acted then.
I think she’d give you your walking papers for keeps.
And you couldn’t blame her. No nice girl wants to give
her love to a stupid drunk !
richard (writhing). I know, Pa.
miller (after a pause — quietly). All right. Then that
settles — the booze end of it. (He sizes Richard up search-
ingly — then suddenly speaks sharply .) But there is another
thing that’s more serious. How about that tart you went
to bed with at the Pleasant Beach House ?
richard (flabbergasted — stammers ). You know ?
But I didn’t ! If they’ve told you about her down there,
they must have told you I didn’t ! She wanted me to
— but I wouldn’t. I gave her the five dollars just so she’d
let me out of it. Honest, Pa, I didn’t ! She made
everything seem rotten and dirty — and — I didn’t want
to do a thing like that to Muriel — no matter how bad I
thought she’d treated me — even after I felt drunk, I
didn’t. Honest !
miller. How’d you happen to meet this lady,
anyway ?
richard. I can’t tell that, Pa. I’d have to snitch
on someone — and you wouldn’t want me to do that.
158
AH, WILDERNESS !
miller (a bit taken aback). No. I suppose I wouldn’t.
Hmm. Well, I believe you — and I guess that settles
that. (Then, after a quick, furtive glance at Richard, he
nerves himself for the ordeal and begins with a shamefaced,
self-conscious solemnity .) But listen here, Richard, it’s
about time you and I had a serious talk about — hmm —
certain matters pertaining to — and now that the subject’s
come up of its own accord, it’s good time — I mean, there’s
no use in procrastinating further — so, here goes.
( But it doesn't go smoothly and as he goes on he
becomes more and more guiltily embarrassed and
self-conscious and his expressions more stilted
Richard sedulously avoids even glancing at him,
his own embarrassment made tenfold more pain-
ful by his father' si)
Richard, you have now come to the age when
Well, you’re a fully developed man, in a way, and it’s
only natural for you to have certain desires of the flesh,
to put it that way I mean, pertaining to the oppo-
site sex — certain natural feelings and temptations — that’ll
want to be gratified — and you’ll want to gratify them.
Hmm — well, human society being organized as it is,
there’s only one outlet for — unless you’re a scoundrel and
go around ruining decent girls — which you’re not, of
course. Well, there are a certain class of women —
always have been and always will be as long as human
nature is what it is It’s wrong, maybe, but what
can you do about it ? I mean, girls like that one you —
girls there’s something doing with — and lots of ’em are
pretty, and it’s human nature if you But that
doesn’t mean to ever get mixed up with them seriously !
You just have what you want and pay ’em and forget it.
I know that sounds hard and unfeeling, but we’re talking
159
AH, WILDERNESS !
facts and But don’t think I’m encouraging you
to If you can stay away from ’em, all the better —
but if — why — hmm Here’s what I’m driving at,
Richard. They’re apt to be whited sepulchres — I mean,
your whole life might be ruined if — so, darn it, you’ve
got to know how to I mean, there are ways and
means ( Suddenly he can go no farther and winds up
helplessly .) But, hell, I suppose you boys talk all this
over among yourselves and you know more about it than
I do. I’ll admit I’m no authority. I never had any-
thing to do with such women, and it’ll be a hell of a lot
better for you if you never do !
Richard ( without looking at him). I’m never going to,
Pa. (Then shocked indignation coming into his voice!) I
don’t see how you could think I could — now — when you
know I love Muriel and am going to marry her. I’d die
before I’d !
miller (immensely relieved — enthusiastically). That’s
the talk ! By God, I’m proud of you when you talk like
that ! (Then hastily .) And now that’s all of that.
There’s nothing more to say and we’ll forget it, eh ?
Richard (after a pause). How are you going to
punish me, Pa ?
miller. I was sort of forgetting that, wasn’t I ?
Well, I’d thought of telling you you couldn’t go to
Yale
richard (eagerly). Don’t I have to go ? Gee, that’s
great ! Muriel thought you’d want me to. I was tell-
ing her I’d rather you gave me a job on the paper because
then she and I could get married sooner. (Then with a
boyish grin.) Gee, Pa, you picked a lemon. That isn’t
160
AH, WILDERNESS !
any punishment. You’ll have to do something besides
that.
miller (grimly — but only half concealing an answering-
grin). Then you’ll go to Yale and you’ll stay there till
you graduate, that’s the answer to that ! Muriel’s got
good sense and you haven’t ! ( Richard accepts this philo-
sophically.) And now we’re finished, you better call your
mother.
( Richard, opens the screen door and calls “ Ma,”
and a moment later she comes in. She glances
quickly from son to husband and immediately
knows that all is well and tactfully refrains
from all questions .)
mrs. miller. My, it’s a beautiful night. The moon’s
way down low — almost setting.
(She sits in her chair and sighs contentedly. Richard
remains standing by the door , staring out at the
moon , his face pale in the moonlight . )
miller (with a nod at Richard , winking at his wife).
Yes, I don’t believe I’ve hardly ever seen such a beautiful
night — with such a wonderful moon. Have you,
Richard ?
Richard ( turning to them — enthusiastically). No 1 It
was wonderful— down at the beach (He stops
abruptly , smiling shyly.)
miller ( watching his son — after a pause — quietly). I
can only remember a few nights that were as beautiful
as this — and they were long ago, when your mother and
I were young and planning to get married.
richard (stares at him wonderingly for a moment , then
a.w. 161 L
AH, WILDERNESS !
quickly from his father to his mother and back again , strangely ,
as if he'd never seen them before — then he looks almost dis-
gusted and swallows as if an acrid taste had come into his
mouth — but then suddenly his face is transfigured by a smile
of shy understanding and sympathy. He speaks shyly).
Yes, I’ll bet those must have been wonderful nights, too.
You sort of forget the moon was the same way back then
— and everything.
miller (huskily). You’re all right, Richard. (He gets
up and blows his nose.)
mrs. miller (fondly). You’re a good boy, Richard.
(Richard looks dreadfully shy and embarrassed at
this. His father comes to his rescued)
miller. Better get to bed early to-night, Son, hadn’t
you ?
richard. I couldn’t sleep. Can’t I go out on the
piazza and sit for a while — until the moon sets ?
miller. All right. Then you better say good night
now. I don’t know about your mother, but I’m going
to bed right away. I’m dead tired.
mrs. miller. So am I.
richard (goes to her and kisses her). Good night, Ma.
mrs. miller. Good night. Don’t you stay up till all
hours now.
richard ( comes to his father and stands awkwardly before
him). Good night, Pa.
miller (puts his arm around him and gives him a hug).
Good night, Richard.
162
AH, WILDERNESS !
( Richard turns impulsively and kisses him — then
hurries out the screen door. Miller stares after
him — then says huskily .)
First time he’s done that in years. 1 don’t believe in
kissing between fathers and sons after a certain age —
seems mushy and silly — but that meant something !
And I don’t think we’ll ever have to worry about his
being safe — from himself — again. And I guess no
matter what life will do to him, he can take care of it now.
(He sighs with satisfaction and , sitting down in his chair ,
begins to unlace his shoes.) My darned feet are giving me
fits !
mrs. miller (laughing). Why do you bother unlacing
your shoes now, you big goose — when we’re going right
up to bed ?
miller (as if he hadn't thought of that before , stops).
Guess you’re right. (Then getting to his feet — with a
grin.) Mind if I don’t say my prayers to-night, Essie ?
I’m certain God knows I’m too darned tired.
mrs. miller. Don’t talk that way. It’s real sinful.
(She gets up — then laughing fondly .) If that isn’t you all
over ! Always looking for an excuse to You’re
worse than Tommy ! But all right. I suppose to-night
you needn’t. You’ve had a hard day. (She puts her
hand on the reading-lamp switch.) I’m going to turn out
the light. All ready ?
miller. Yep. Let her go, Gallagher. (She turns
out the lamp. In the ensuing darkness the faint moonlight
shines full in through the screen door. Walking together
toward the front parlour they stand full in it for a moment ,
looking out. Miller puts his arm around her. He says in
163
AH, WILDERNESS !
a low voice.) There he is — like a statue of Love’s Young
Dream. (Then he sighs and speaks with a gentle nostalgic
melancholy .) What’s it that Rubaiyat says :
“ Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose !
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close 1 ”
(Then throwing off his melancholy, with a loving smile at her.)
Well, Spring isn’t everything, is it, Essie ? There’s a
lot to be said for Autumn. That’s got beauty, too. And
Winter — if you’re together.
mrs. miller (simply). Yes, Nat.
(She kisses him and they move quietly out of the
moonlight , back into the darkness of the front
parlour .)
Curtain
164
Days Without End
A JVIoder-n IVTiracle Play
CARLO TT T A.
Scenes
ACT ONE
PLOT FOR A NOVEL
Scene : John Loving’s office in the offices of Eliot ana
Company, New York City — an afternoon in early
Spring, 1932.
ACT TWO
plot for a novel {continued)
Scene : Living-room of the Lovings’ duplex apartment
— later the same afternoon.
ACT THREE
plot for a novel {continued)
Scene One : The living-room again — evening of the same
day.
Scene Two : John Loving’s study — later that night.
ACT FOUR
THE END OF THE END
Scene One: The study and Elsa’s bedroom — a little
before dawn of a day about a week later.
Scene Two : The interior of a church — a few minutes
later.
5
Characters
(In the order in which they appear)
JOHN
LOVING
WILLIAM ELIOT
FATHER MATTHEW BAIRD
elsa, John Loving s wife
MARGARET
LUCY HILLMAN
DR. HERBERT STILLWELL
NURSE
6
ACT ONE
PLOT FOR A NOVEL
scene. John Loving's private office in the offices of Eliot
and Company , New York City. On the left, a window.
Before it , a chair , its back to the window , and a table.
At rear of table , an armchair , facing front. A third
chair is at right of table. In the rear wall, a door
leading to the outer offices. At centre of the room ,
toward right, another chair.
It is afternoon of a cloudy day in Spring, 1932. The
light from the window is chill and grey. At the rise
of the curtain , this light is concentrated around the two
figures seated at the table. As the action goes on, the
light imperceptibly spreads until, at the close of the
opening scene between John and Loving, it has pene-
trated to all parts of the room.
John is seated in the chair at left of desk. He is
forty , of medium height. His face is handsome, with
the rather heavy, conventional American type of good
looks — a straight nose and a square jaw, a wide mouth
that has an incongruous feminine sensitiveness, a broad
forehead, blue eyes. He is dressed in a dark suit,
white shirt and collar , -a dark tie, black shoes and
socks.
Loving sits in the armchair at rear of table. He is
the same age, of the same height and figure, is dressed
in every detail exactly the same. His hair is the same
— dark, streaked with grey. In contrast to this
7
DAYS WITHOUT END
similarity between the two , there is an equally strange
dissimilarity. For Loving's face is a mask whose
features reproduce exactly the features of John's face
the death mask of a John who has died with a sneer
of scornful mockery on his lips. And this mocking scorn
is repeated in the expression of the eyes which stare
bleakly from behind the mask.
John nervously writes a few words on a pad — then
stops abruptly and stares before him. Loving watches
him.
loving (his voice singularly toneless and cold but at the
same time insistent ). Surely, you don’t need to
any more notes for the second part — your hero’s man-
hood up to the time he (a sneer comes into his voice) at last
finds love. I should think you could remember that —
only too well.
john (mechanically). Yes.
loving ( sneeringly ). As for the third part, I know
you have the most vivid recollection of his terrible sin.
john. Don’t mock, damn you !
loving. So it’s only in the last part that you will have
to use your imagination. How are you going to end
this interesting plot of yours ? Given your hero’s
ridiculous conscience, what happens then ?
john. He has the courage to confess — and she
forgives.
loving. The wish is father to that thought, eh ?
A pretty, sentimental ending — but a bit too pointed,
don’t you think ? I’m afraid she might begin to
wonder
8
DAYS WITHOUT END
John ( apprehensively ). Yes. That’s true.
loving. I advise you to make the last part so obviously
fictitious that it will kill any suspicion which might be
aroused by what has gone before.
john. How can I end it, then ?
loving (after a second's -pause — in a voice he tries to
make casual hut which is indefinitely sinister). Why not
have the wife die ?
john (starts — with a shudder). Damn you ! What
makes you think of that ?
loving. Why, nothing — except I thought you’d
agreed that the further removed from present actuality
you make your ending, the better it will be.
john. Yes — but
loving (mockingly). I hope you don’t suspect some
hidden, sinister purpose behind my suggestion.
john. I don’t know. I feel (Then as if desper-
ately trying to shake off his thoughts .) No ! I won’t think
of it!
loving. And I was thinking, too, that it would be
interesting to work out your hero’s answer to his problem,
if his wife died, and imagine what he would do with his
life then.
john. No ! Damn you, stop making me think !
loving. Afraid to face your ghosts — even by proxy ?
Surely, even you can have that much courage !
John. It is dangerous — to call things.
loving. Still superstitious ? Well, I hope you 1
9
DAYS WITHOUT END
realize I’m only trying to encourage you to make some-
thing of this plot of yours more significant — for your
soul, shall I say ? — than a cowardly trick !
john. You know it’s more than that. You know
I’m doing it to try and explain to myself, as well as to her.
loving ( sneeringly ). To excuse yourself to yourself,
you mean ! To lie and escape admitting the obvious
natural reason for
john. You lie ! I want to get at the real truth and
understand what was behind — what evil spirit of hate
possessed me to make me —
loving (contemptuously — but as he goes on a strange
defiant note of exultance comes into his voice). So it’s come
back to that again, eh ? Your old familiar nightmare !
You poor, damned superstitious fool ! I tell you again
what I have always told you : There is nothing — nothing
to hope for, nothing to fear — neither devils nor gods
— nothing at all !
(There is a knock on the door at rear. John imme-
diately pretends to be writing. At the same
time his features automatically assume the
meaninglessly affable expression which is the
American business man's welcoming poker face.
Loving sits motionlessly regarding him with
scornful eyes.)
john (without looking up , calls). Come in.
(The door in rear is half opened and William Eliot,
John Loving's partner , looks in. He is about
forty , stout, with a prematurely bald head, a
round face, a humorous , good-natured mouth ,
small eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles .)
TO
DAYS WITHOUT END
eliot. Hello, John. Busy ?
john. Foolish question, Bill.
eliot (his eyes pass over Loving without seeing him. He
does not see him now or later . He sees and hears only John,
even when Loving speaks. And it will he so with all the
characters. They are quite unaware of Loving's existence ,
although at times one or another may subtly sense his presence.
Eliot comes forward. He says jokingly ). You sound
downhearted, John. Don’t let our little depression get
you. There’s always the poorhouse. Quite cosy, too,
they say. Peace for the weary —
loving ( cuts in — mockingly). There is much to be said
for peace.
eliot (as if it were John who had spoken). Yes, John,
there sure is — these damned days. (Then giving John
a glance of concern .) Look here. I think our troubles
are getting your nerve. You’ve seemed worn ragged
lately. Why not take a few days in the country ?
John. Nonsense ! I’m fine. (Forcing a humorous
tone. ) What, besides the poorhouse, is on your mind,
Bill ?
eliot. Nothing but lunch. Ate too much again,
damn it. What were you doping out when I came in ?
Got some new scheme for us ?
JOHN. No.
loving. Merely trying to work out the answer to a
puzzle — a human puzzle.
john ( ’hurriedly ). That is, I’m playing around with
a plot for a novel that’s come into my mind lately.
DAYS WITHOUT END
elxot (with amused surprise). What ? Good God,
don’t tell me the literary bug is biting you again ? I
thought you’d got that out of your system long ago when
you got engaged to Elsa and decided to come in with
me and make some money.
john. Well, I thought I might as well do something
with all this leisure. Oh, I’ll probably never write it,
but it’s amusing to dope out.
eliot. Why shouldn’t you write it ? You certainly
showed you could write in the old days — articles, any-
way. (Then with a grin.) Why, I can remember when
I couldn’t pick up an advanced-thinker organ without
running into a red-hot article of yours denouncing
Capitalism or religion or something.
John (smiling good-naturedly). You always did have a
mean memory, Bill.
eliot (laughs). God, John, how you’ve changed 1
What hymns of hate you used to emit against poor old
Christianity ! Why, I remember one article where
you actually tried to prove that no such figure as Christ
had ever existed.
loving ( his tone suddenly cold and hostile). I still feel
the same on that subject.
eliot (gives John a surprised glance). Feel P Can’t
understand anyone having feelings any more on such a
dead issue as religion.
John (confused). Well, to tell the truth, I haven't
given it a thought in years, but (Then hurriedly .)
But, for Pete’s sake, let’s not get started on religion.
12
DAYS WITHOUT END
eliot ( changes the subject tactfully). Tell me about
this novel of yours, John. What’s it all about ?
john. Nothing to tell yet. I haven’t got it finally
worked out.
loving. The most important part, that is — the end.
John (in a joking tone). But when I have, Bill, I’ll
be only too glad to get your esteemed criticism.
eliot. That’s a promise, remember ( Then get-
ting up.) Well, I suppose I better get back to my office.
(He starts for the door — then turns back.) Oh, I knew
there was something I’d forgotten to tell you. Lucy
Hillman called up while you were out.
john (carelessly). Yes ? What did she want ?
eliot. Wanted you. Got my office by mistake.
She’ll call up later. It was important, she said to tell you.
john. Her idea of important ! Probably wants my
advice on what to give Walter for a birthday present.
eliot. What the devil’s got into Walter lately, any-
way ? Getting drunk as a pastime may have its points,
but as an exclusive occupation Not to mention
all his affairs with women. How does Lucy stand it ?
But I hear she’s going to pieces, too.
john. I don’t believe it. She isn’t the kind to have
affairs.
eliot. I don’t mean that. I mean booze.
john. Oh ! Well, if it’s true, you can hardly blame
her.
a.w. 13 M
DAYS WITHOUT END
elxot. There are children, aren’t there ? Why
hasn’t she the guts to divorce him ?
John. Don’t ask me. We haven’t seen much of
Lucy, either, for a long time. (He dismisses the subject <
by looking down at his pad, as if he wanted to start writing .)
eliot ( taking the hint). Well, I’ll move along.
john. See you later, Bill.
( Eliot goes out , rear. After the door closes behind
him John speaks tensely.)
Why did she phone ? Important, she said. What can
have happened ?
loving (coldly). Who knows ? But you know very
well she can’t be trusted. You’d better be prepared for
any stupid folly. And better get the end of your novel
decided upon, so you can tell your plot — before it’s too
late.
john (tensely). Yes.
loving (the hidden sinister note again creeping into his
coldly casual tone). There can be only one sensible, logical
end for your hero, after he has lost his wife for ever —
that is, provided he loves her as much as he boasts to
himself he does — and if he has any honour or courage
john (gives a start — then bitterly). Ah ! I see now
what you’re driving at 1 And you talk of courage and
honour ! ( (Defiantly .) No ! He must go on ! He
must find a faith — somewhere !
loving (an undercurrent of anger in his sneering). Some-
where, eh ? Now I wonder what hides behind that
14
DAYS WITHOUT END
somewhere ? Is it your old secret weakness — the
cowardly yearning to go back ?
John ( defensively ). I don’t know what you’re think-
ing about.
loving. You lie ! I know you ! And I’ll make
you face it in the end of your story — face it and kill it,
finally and for ever !
( There is again a knock on the door and John's eyes
go to his pad. This time Eliot comes in im-
mediately, without waiting for an answer .)
John. Hello, Bill. What’s up now ?
eliot ( comes forward, a twinkle in his eye). John,
there’s a mysterious visitor outside demanding to see
you.
John. You mean — Lucy ?
eliot. Lucy ? No. This is a man. He ran into
me before he got to Miss Sims and asked for you.
( Grinning. ) And as it’s liable to be a bitter blow, I
thought I better break the news in person.
John. What’s the joke ? Who is it ?
eliot. It’s a priest.
John. A priest ?
loving {harshly). I don’t know any priests ! Tell
him to get out !
eliot. Now don’t be disrespectful. He claims he’s
your uncle.
John. My uncle ? Did he give his name ?
DAYS WITHOUT END
eliot. Yes. Father Baird. Said he’d just got in
from the West.
John ( dumbfounded — -forcing a smile). Well, I’ll be
damned.
eliot (laughs). My God, think of you having a priest
for an uncle ! That’s too rich !
John. I haven’t seen him since I was a boy.
eliot. Why so scared ? Afraid he’s come to lecture
you on your sins ?
loving (angrily). He may be a joke to you. He’s
not to me, damn him !
eliot ( gives John a surprised , disapproving glance). Oh,
come, John. Not as bad as that, is it ? He struck me
as a nice old guy.
John (hurriedly). He is. I didn’t mean that. I
always liked him. He was very kind to me when I was
a kid. He acted as my guardian for a while. But I
wish he’d given me warning. (Then picking up the tele-
phoned) Well, it’s rotten to keep him cooling his heels.
Hello. Send Father Baird in.
eliot (turning to the door). I’ll get out.
John. No, as a favour, stay around until the ice is
broken.
(He has gotten up and is going toward the door.
Loving remains in his chair , his eyes fixed
before him in a hostile stare , his body tensed
defensively.)
eliot. Sure.
16
DAYS WITHOUT END
[A knock comes on the door. John opens it and
Father Matthew Baird enters. He is seventy ,
about John and Loving's height , erect , robust ,
with thick white hair , ruddy complexion.
There is a clear resemblance to John and
Loving in the general cast of his features and
the colour of his eyes. His appearance and
personality radiate health and observant kindli-
ness — also the confident authority of one who is
accustomed to obedience and deference — and one
gets immediately from him the sense of an
unshakable inner calm and certainty , the peace
of one whose goal in life is fixed by an end
beyond life '. )
John ( constrained and at the same time affectionate ).
Hello, Uncle ! What in the world brings you
father baird [clasping John's hand in a strong grip).
Jack 1 [His manner is very much what it must have been
when John was a boy and he was the guardian. Deeply
moved , he puts his arm around John and gives him an affec-
tionate hug.) My dear Jack ! This is [He sees
Eliot and stops , a bit embarrassed .)
John [moved and embarrassed , getting away from his
arm). I want you to meet my partner — Bill Eliot — my
uncle. Father Baird.
eliot. It’s a great pleasure, Father.
father baird [shakes his hand — a formal , old-fashioned
courtesy in his manner). The pleasure is mine, Mr. Eliot.
But I feel I’ve had the privilege of your acquaintance
already through Jack’s letters.
John. Sit down, Uncle. [He indicates the chair at
17
DAYS WITHOUT END
right of desk. Father Baird sits down. John sits in his
chair at left. Eliot stands by the chair at right, centre .)
eliot. Well, I’ll leave you two alone and pretend to
be busy. That’s the hardest job we have now, Father
— keeping up the pretence of work.
father baird. You have plenty of company, if
that’s any consolation. I get the same tale of woe from
everyone in our part of the country.
eliot. I’m afraid the company doesn’t console a bit.
They’re all too darned whiny.
father baird {a twinkle coining into his eye). Ah, who
can blame you for whining when your omnipotent
Golden Calf explodes into sawdust before your adoring,
eyes right at the height of his deification ? It’s tragic,
no other word — unless the word be comic.
loving (his voice a mocking sneer). And what salva-
tion for us are you preaching ? The Second Coming ?
father baird (startled, turns to stare at John. Eliot
also looks at him, surprised and disapproving of this taunt.
Father Baird says quietly, without any sign of taking offence).
The First Coming is enough, Jack — for those who
remember it. (Then he turns to Eliot — in a joking tone . )
If you knew how familiar that note sounds from him,
Mr. Eliot. Here I’ve been feeling strange, looking at
him and seeing what a big rhan of affairs he’d grown, and
saying to myself, can this be my old Jack ? And then
he has to go and give himself away with a strain of his
old bold whistling in the dark, and I see he’s still only
out of short pants a while, as I knew him last ! (He
gives a comic sigh of relief l) Thank you, Jack. I feel
quite at home with you now.
1 8
DAYS WITHOUT END
eliot ( immensely amused , especially at the expression of
boyish discomfiture on John's face — laughingly ). John, I
begin to feel sorry for you. You’ve picked on some one
out of your class.
father baird ( with a wink at Eliot'). Did you hear
him throw the word preaching in my face, Mr. Eliot
— with a dirty sneer in his voice ? There’s injustice
for you. If you knew what a burden he made my life for
years with his preaching. Letter upon letter — each with
a soap box enclosed, so to speak. The plague began
right after I’d had to go West and leave him to his own
devices. He was about to pass out of my guardianship
and go to college with the bit of money his parents had
left for him when he reached eighteen. So I had to
let him go his own way. I’d learned it was no use
fighting him, anyway. I’d done that and found it was
a great satisfaction to him and only made him worse.
And I had faith, if let alone, he’d come back to his senses
in the end.
loving ( sneeringly ). And how mistaken you were in
that faith 1
father baird ( without turning — quietly). No. The
end isn’t yet, Jack. (He goes on to Eliot with a renewal
of his humorously complaining tone.) You wouldn’t believe
what a devil’s advocate he was in those days, Mr. Eliot.
eliot. You needn’t tell me, Father. I was his class-
mate. He organized an Atheists’ Club— or tried to —
and almost got fired for it.
father baird. Yes, I remember his writing to boast
about that. Well, you can appreciate then what I went
through, even if he didn’t write you letters.
19
DAYS WITHOUT END
eliot. But he delivered harangues. Father, when he
could get anybody to listen !
father baird (pityingly ). Ah, that must have been
cruel, too. Mr. Eliot, I feel drawn to you. We’ve been
through the same frightful trials.
John (with a boyishly discomfited air). I hope you’re
having a good time, you two.
father baird (ignoring him). Not a moment’s peace
did he give me. I was the heathen to him and he was
bound he’d convert me to something. First it was
Atheism unadorned. Then it was Atheism wedded to
Socialism. But Socialism proved too weak-kneed a mate,
and the next I heard Atheism was living in free love with
Anarchism, with a curse by Nietzsche to bless the union.
And then came the Bolshevik dawn, and he greeted that
with unholy howls of glee and wrote me he’d found a
congenial home at last in the bosom of Karl Marx. He
was particularly delighted when he thought they’d
abolished love and marriage, and he couldn’t contain
himself when the news came they’d turned naughty
schoolboys and were throwing spitballs at Almighty
God and had supplanted Him with the slave-owning
State — the most grotesque god that ever came out of Asial
eliot (chuckling). I recognize all this, Father. I
used to read his articles, as I was reminding him just
before you came.
father baird. Don’t I know them ! Didn’t he
send me every one with blue pencil underlinings 1 But
to get back to my story : Thinks I at this juncture, well,
he’s' run away as far as he can get in that direction*
Where will he hide himself next ?
20
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving (stiffening in his chair — with angry resentment).
Run away. You talk as if I were afraid of something.
Hide ? Hide from what ?
father baird (without turning — quietly ). Don’t you
know, Jack ? Well, if you don’t yet, you will some
day. (Again to Eliot.) I knew Communism wouldn’t
hold him long — and it didn’t. Soon his letters became
full of pessimism, and disgust with all sociological nos-
trums. Then followed a long silence. And what do
you think was his next hiding place ? Religion, no less
— but as far away as he could run from home — in the
defeatist mysticism of the East. First it was China
and Lao Tze that fascinated him, but afterwards he ran
on to Buddha, and his letters for a time extolled passion-
less contemplation so passionately that I had a mental view
of him regarding his navel frenziedly by the hour and
making nothing of it !
(Eliot laughs and John chuckles sheepishly in spite of
himself. Loving stares before him with a cold ,
angry disdain .)
eliot. Gosh, I’m sorry I missed that 1 When was
all this. Father ?
father baird. In what I’d call his middle hide-and-
go-seek period. But the next I knew, he was through
with the East. It was not for the Western soul, he
decided, and he was running through Greek philosophy
and found a brief shelter in Pythagoras and numerology.
Then came a letter which revealed him bogged down in
evolutionary scientific truth again — a dyed-in-the-wool
mechanist. That was the last I heard of his perigrin-
ations — and, thank heaven, it was long ago. I enjoyed
a long interval of peace from his missionary zeal, until
21
DAYS WITHOUT END
finally he wrote me he was married. That letter was
full of more ardent hymns of praise for a mere living
woman than he’d ever written before about any of his
great spiritual discoveries. And ever since then I’ve
heard nothing but the praises of Elsa — in which I
know I’ll be ready to join after I’ve met her.
John {his face lighting up). You bet you will ! We
can agree on that, at least.
father baird {with a wink at Eliot). He seems to be
fixed in his last religion. I hope so. The only constant
faith I’ve found in him before was his proud belief in
himself as a bold Antichrist. {He gives John a side
glance , half smiling and half reproachful .) Ah, well, it’s a
rocky road full of twists and blind alleys, isn’t it, Jack
— this running away from truth in order to find it ? I
mean, until the road finally turns back toward home.
loving {with harsh defiance ). You believe I ?
{Then sneeringly.) But, of course, you would read that
into it.
John {bursts out irritably , as if he couldn't control his
nerves). But don’t you think I’m about exhausted as. a
subject, Uncle ? I do. {He gets up nervously and moves
around and stands behind Loving's chair , his hands on the
back of the chair , his face directly above Loving's masked one.)
eliot ( gives the priest an amused smile). Well, I’ll get
back to my office. ( Father Baird gets up and he shakes
his hand heartily.) I hope we’ll meet again, Father.
Are you here for long ?
father baird. Only a few days, I’m afraid.
John {coming around to them). I’ll fix up something
22
DAYS WITHOUT END
with Elsa for the four of us, Bill — as soon as she’s feeling
stronger. We won’t let him run away in a few days,
now we’ve got him here.
eliot. Fine ! See you again, then, Father. (He
goes toward the door .)
father baird. I hope so, Mr. Eliot. Good day
to you.
eliot (with the door open, turns back with a grin). I
feel it my duty, Father, to warn you that John’s got
writer’s itch again. He’s going to give us a novel. (He
laughs and closes the door behind him. ’John frowns and
gives his uncle a quick uneasy glance l)
John (indicating the chair at right , centre). Take that
chair, Uncle. It’s more comfortable.
(He sits down in the chair at right of table where
Father Baird had sat, while the priest sits in
the one at right, centre. Father Baird gives
him a puzzled, concerned look, as if he were
trying to figure something out. Then he speaks
casually)
father baird. A novel ? Is that right, Jack ?
joh n (without looking at him). Thinking of it — to pass
the time.
father baird. Then, judging from your letters, it
ought to be a love story.
john. It is — a love story.
loving (mockingly). About God’s love for us !
father baird (quietly rebuking ). Jack ! (A pause of
23
DAYS WITHOUT END
silence. Father Baird gives "John a quick glance again —
then casually .) If you’ve any appointments, don’t stand
on ceremony ; just shoo me out.
John ( turns to him shamefacedly). Don’t talk that way,
Uncle. You know I wouldn’t — (with a natural , boyishly
affectionate smile). You know darned well how tickled I
am to have you here.
father baird. I hope you’re half as glad as I am to
see you, Jack. (He sighs.) It has been a long time — too
long.
John. Yes. (Smiling.) But I’m still flabbergasted.
I never dreamed you Why didn’t you wire me
you were coming ?
father baird. Oh, I thought I’d surprise you. (He
smiles.) To tell you the truth, I confess I had a sneaking
Sherlock Holmes desire to have a good look at you before
you were expecting it.
John (frowning — uneasily). Why ? Why should
you ?
father baird. Well, I suppose because, not having
seen you, I’m afraid that to me you were still the boy
I’d known, and I was still your suspicious guardian.
John (relieved — with a boyish grin). Oh ! I see.
father baird. And now I have seen you, I still must
admit that the grey in your hair is lost on me, and I
can’t get it out of my head you’re the same old Jack.
John (grinning with a boyish discomfiture). Yes, and
the devil of it is you make me feel that way, too. It’s
an unfair advantage, Uncle.
24
DAYS WITHOUT END
( ’Father Baird laughs and John joins ini)
father baird. Well, I never took unfair advantage
of you in the old days, did I ?
john. You certainly didn’t. When I look back, I’m
amazed you could have been so fair. ( Quickly — changing
the subject .) But you haven’t told me yet how you
happened to come East.
father baird (a bit evasively). Oh, I decided a vaca-
tion was due me. And I’ve had a great longing for
some time to see you again.
John. I only wish I could have you stay with us,
but there’s no room. But you must have dinner with
us to-night, and every night you’re here, of course.
father baird. Yes, I’d like to see all of you I can.
But there’s this, Jack. You spoke to Mr. Eliot as if
Elsa were ill.
john. Oh, it’s nothing serious. She’s just getting
over the flu, and still feels a bit low.
father baird. Then I’d better not come to-night.
john. You better had or she’ll never forgive you —
or me !
father baird. Very well. I’m only too happy.
{A pause. He glances at John again ’with a
curious puzzled fixity . John catches his eyes , is
held by them for a moment , then looks away
almost furtively .)
john ( forcing a smile). Is that the suspicious guardian
look ? I’ve forgotten.
2 5
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird (as if to himself — slowly). I feel
(Then suddenly .) There’s something I want to tell you,
Jack. (A stern note comes into his voice.) But first give
me your word of honour there will be no cheap sneering.
John (stares at him, taken aback — then quietly). There
won’t be.
father baird. Well, it’s often come to me in the
past that I shouldn’t have let you get so far from me,
that I might be in part responsible for your continued
estrangement from your Faith.
loving (with mocking scorn). My faith ?
John. You know that’s nonsense, Uncle.
loving. You have always nobly done your duty.
You’ve never let a letter pass without some pious reminder
of my fall — with the calm assurance that I would again
see the light. That never failed to make me laugh —
your complacent assumption that like the Prodigal of
His fairy tale, I
father baird (sharply). Jack ! You promised !
John (confusedly). I know. I didn’t mean Go
on with what you started to tell me.
father baird. First answer me frankly one question.
Have you been greatly troubled in spirit by anything
lately ?
John (startled). I ? Why do you ask that ? Of
course not. (Then evasively.) Oh, well — yes, maybe,
if you mean business worries.
father baird. Nothing else ?
john. No. What could there be ?
26
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird (unconvinced — looking away). The
reason I asked You’ll see in what I’m going to tell
you. It happened one night while I was praying for you
in my church, as I have every day since I left you. A
strange feeling of fear took possession of me — a feeling
you were unhappy, in some great spiritual danger. I
told myself it was foolish. I’d had a letter from you
only that day, reiterating how happy you were. I tried
to lose my dread in prayer — and my guilt. Yes, I felt
stricken with guilt, too — that I was to blame for what-
ever was happening to you. Then, as I prayed, suddenly
as if by some will outside me, my eyes were drawn to the
Cross, to the face of Our Blessed Lord. And it was like
a miracle ! His face seemed alive as a living man’s
would be, but radiant with eternal life, too, especially
the sad, pitying eyes. But there was a sternness in His
eyes, too, an accusation against me — a command about
you 1 (He breaks off and gives John a quick glance , as if
afraid of finding him sneering. Then , looking away , he adds
simply :) That’s the real reason I decided to take my
vacation in the East, Jack.
John ( stares at him fascinatedly). You saw ?
loving (in a bitter , sneering tone). It could hardly have
been any concern for me you saw in His face — even if
He did exist or ever had existed !
father BAIRD (sternly). Jack ! (Then, after a pause ,
quietly '. ) Do you know Francis Thompson’s poem —
The Hound of Heaven ?
loving. I did once. Why ?
father baird ( quotes in a low voice but with deep feeling).
27
DAYS WITHOUT END
“ Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest 1
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.”
loving (in what is close to a snarl of scorn). Love !
john (defensively). I have love !
father baird (as if he hadn't heard). Why do you
run and hide from Him, as from an enemy ? Take care.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must
have his God for friend, or he has no friend at all, not
even himself. Who knows ? Perhaps you are on the
threshold of that time now.
john (uneasily). What do you mean ?
father baird. I don’t know. It’s for you to know
that. You say you have love ?
john. You know I have. Or, if you don’t, you soon
will after you’ve met Elsa.
father baird. I’m not doubting your love for her
nor hers for you. It’s exactly because I do not doubt.
I am thinking that such love needs the hope and promise
of eternity to fulfil itself — above all, to feel itself secure.
Beyond the love for each other should be the love of
God, in Whose Love yours may find the triumph over
death.
loving (sneeringly). Old superstition, born of fear !
Beyond death there is nothing. That, at least, is certain
— a certainty we should be thankful for. One life is
boring enough. Do not condemn us to another. Let
us rest in peace at last !
father baird (quietly). Would you talk that way if
Elsa should die ?
28
DAYS WITHOUT END
John (with a shudder). For God’s sake, don’t speak
about
loving. Do you think I haven’t imagined her death
many times ?
john. The dread of it has haunted me ever since
we were married.
FATHER BAIRD. Ah !
loving. You’ll see that I face it — by proxy, at least
— in my novel. (A sneering taunt in his voice.) I think
you’ll be interested in this novel, Uncle.
father baird ( staring at John, whose face is averted).
It’s autobiographical, then ?
john (hastily). No. Of course not. I only
meant Don’t get that idea in your head, for Pete’s
sake. As I explained to Elsa, when I told her about
the first part, it’s really the story of a man I once knew.
loving. The first part will particularly interest you.
Uncle. I am afraid you will be terribly shocked —
especially in the light of your recent mystic vision !
father baird. I’m very curious to hear it, Jack.
When will you tell me ?
loving (defiantly). Now !
john (uneasily). But no. I don’t want to bore you.
father baird. You won’t bore me.
john. No I
loving (with harsh insistence). The first part concerns
my hero’s boyhood here in New York, up to the age of
fifteen.
A.W.
29
n
DAYS WITHOUT END
John ( under Loving's compulsion, he picks up the thread
of the story). He was an only child. His father was a
fine man. The boy adored him. And he adored his
mother even more. She was a wonderful woman, a
perfect type of our old beautiful ideal of wife and mother. ’
loving ( sneeringly ). But there was one ridiculous
weakness in her character, an absurd obsession with
religion. In the father’s, too. They were both devout
Catholics.
(The priest gives a swift, reproachful look at John,
seems about to protest, thinks better of it, and
drops his eyes.)
John (quickly). But not the ignorant, bigoted sort,
please understand. No, their piety had a genuine,
gentle, mystic quality to it. Their faith was the great
comforting inspiration of their lives. And their God
was One of Infinite Love — not a stern, self-righteous
Being Who condemned sinners to torment, but a very
human, lovable God Who became man for love of men
and gave His life that they might be saved from them-
selves. And the boy had every reason to believe in
such a Divinity of Love as the Creator of Life. His
home atmosphere was one of love. Life was love for
him then. And he was happy, happier than he ever
afterward (He checks himself abruptly .)
father baird (nods his head approvingly ). Yes.
John. Later, at school, he learned of the God of
Punishment, and he wondered. He couldn’t reconcile
Him with his parents’ faith. So it didn’t make much
impression on him.
loving (bitterly). Then ! But afterward he had
good reason to
30
DAYS WITHOUT END
john. But then he was too sure in his faith. He
grew up as devout as his parents. He even dreamed of
becoming a priest. He used to love to kneel in the
church before the Cross.
loving. Oh, he was a remarkably superstitious young
fool ! (His voice suddenly changes to hard bitterness .)
And then when he was fifteen all these pious illusions
of his were destroyed for ever ! Both his parents were
killed !
john ( hurriedly ). That is, they died during a flu
epidemic in which they contracted pneumonia — and he
was left alone — without love. First, his father died.
The boy had prayed with perfect faith that his father’s
life might be spared.
loving. But his father died ! And the poor simple-
ton’s naive faith was a bit shaken, and a sinful doubt
concerning the Divine Love assailed him !
john. Then his mother, worn out by nursing his
father and by her grief, was taken ill. And the horrible
fear came to him that she might die, too.
loving. It drove the young idiot into a panic of
superstitious remorse. He imagined her sickness was
a terrible warning to him, a punishment for the doubt
inspired in him by his father’s death. (With harsh bitter-
ness .) His God of Love was beginning to show Himself
as a God of Vengeance, you see !
john. But he still trusted in His Love. Surely
He would not take his mother from him, too.
loving. So the poor fool prayed and prayed and
vowed his life to piety and good works ! But he began
3i
DAYS WITHOUT END
to make a condition now — if his mother were spared to
him !
john. Finally he knew in his heart she was going
to die. But even then he hoped and prayed for a miracle.
loving. He abased and humbled himself before the
Cross — and, in reward for his sickening humiliation,
saw that no miracle would happen.
john. Something snapped in him then.
loving (his voice suddenly takes on a tone of hitter hatred).
He saw his God as deaf and blind and merciless — a
Deity Who returned hate for love and revenged Himself
upon those who trusted Him !
john. His mother died. And, in a frenzy of insane
grief
loving. No ! In his awakened pride he cursed his
God and denied Him, and, in revenge, promised his soul
to the Devil— on his knees, when everyone thought
he was praying ! (He laughs with malignant bitterness .)
John (quickly — in a casual tone). And that’s the end
of Part One, as I’ve outlined it.
father baird ( horrified ). Jack ! I can’t believe
that you
john (defensively). I ? What have I to do with it ?
You’re forgetting I explained to you Oh, I admit
there are certain points of resemblance between some of
his boyhood experiences and mine — his parents’ death,
for example. But that’s only coincidence.
father baird (recovered now — staring at him — quietly).
I see.
32
DAYS WITHOUT END
John (jorcing a smile). And please don’t bring up
those coincidences before Elsa, Uncle. She didn’t
notice them because I’ve never bored her with boyhood
reminiscences. And I don’t want her to get the wrong
angle on my plot.
father baxrd. I’ll remember, Jack. When will you
tell me the rest of it ?
john. Oh, some time while you’re here, maybe.
father baird. Why not to-night at your home ?
john. Well, I might
loving. That is, if I can decide on my end before
then !
john. It would give me a chance to get your and
Elsa’s criticisms at the same time. She’s been wanting
to hear the rest of it, too.
father baird (regarding him — quietly). Then, by all
means. (Abruptly changing to a brisk casualness .) Well,
I’ll leave you and attend to some errand I have to do.
(He gets to his feet. He takes John's hand.)
john. Dinner is at seven-thirty. But come as long
before that as you like. I’ll be home early. (Then
with a genuine boyish ajfectioni) I want to tell you again.
Uncle, how grand it is to have you here — in spite of our
arguments.
father baird. I’m not worried by our arguments.
But I am about something about you that admits of no
argument — to me.
john (forcing a smile). You’re wasting worry. But
what is it ?
33
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird. You’ve written me you were happy,
and I believed you. But, now I see you, I don’t believe
you. You’re not happy. Why ? Perhaps if you had
it out with me
loving ( mockingly ). Confess, eh ?
john. Don’t be foolish, Uncle. I am happy, hap-
pier than I ever dreamed I could be. And, for heaven’s
sake, don’t go telling Elsa I’m unhappy 1
father BAIRD {quietly). Very well. We’ll say no
more about it. And now I’ll be off. Good-bye until
this evening, Jack.
John. So long, Uncle.
( Father Baird goes out. John stands by the door,
looking after him — then he comes slowly back
and sits down in his chair and stares before
him. Loving's eyes are fastened on him with
a cold contempt .)
loving. Damned old fool with his bedtime tales for
second childhood about the love of God ! And you —
you’re worse — with your hypocritical lies about your great
happiness !
(The telephone on the table rings. John jumps
nervously — then answers it in an apprehensive
voice.)
john. Hello. Who ? Tell her I’m out.
loving. You’d better find out what she wants.
john. No, wait, I’ll take it. {Then, his voice becom-
ing guarded and pleasantly casual.) Hello, Lucy. Bill
told me you’d called. What ? (He listens — then
34
DAYS WITHOUT END
anxiety creeping into his tone!) She phoned again ? What
about ? Oh ! I’m glad you called me. Yes, she has
been wondering why she hasn’t heard from you in so
long. Yes, by all means, go. Yes, she’s sure to be
in this afternoon. Good-bye. (He hangs up mechanically .)
loving ( sneeringly ). Your terrible sin begins to close
in on you, eh ? But then, it wasn’t you, was it ? It
was some evil spirit that possessed you ! (He gives a
mocking laugh — then stops abruptly and continues in his
tone of cold , sinister insistence .) But enough of that non-
sense. Let’s return to your plot. The wife dies — of
influenza that turns into pneumonia, let’s say.
john (starts violently — stammers ). What — God damn
you — what makes you choose that ?
Curtain
35
ACT TWO
PLOT FOR A NOVEL
(Continued)
scene. The living-room of the Loving s' duplex apartment.
Venetian blinds soften the light from a big window at
right. In front of this window is a table with a lamp.
At left , front , an upholstered chair. At right of chair ,
a small table with a lamp. At right of table , in the
centre of the room , a sofa. In front of sofa , a low
stand with cigarette-box and ash-trays. Toward right ,
another chair. In the left wall is a door leading to
the dining-room. At rear of door , a writing-desk. In
the middle of the rear wall is a doorway leading to
the hall.
It is later the same afternoon,
Elsa enters from the hall at rear. She is thirty-
five but looks much younger. She is beautiful with
that Indian Summer renewal of physical charm which
comes to a woman who loves and is loved, particularly
to one who has not found that love until comparatively
late in life. This beauty is a trifle dimmed now by
traces of recent illness. Her face is drawn and she
fights against a depressing lassitude. She wears a
simple nigligee.
As she comes in, she presses a button by the door and
a buzzer is heard in the pantry. She comes forward
and sits on the sofa. A moment later Margaret, the
36
DAYS WITHOUT END
maid, appears from the dining-room at left. She is a
middle-aged Irishwoman with a kindly face.
Margaret. Yes, Madame ?
elsa. Hasn’t the afternoon paper come yet, Mar-
garet ?
Margaret. No, Madame, not yet. ( Then with kindly
reproof.) Didn’t you take a nap like you promised you
would ?
elsa. I couldn’t get to sleep. But I do feel rested,
so don’t begin to scold me. (She smiles and Margaret
smiles back, a look of devoted affection lighting up her face .)
Margaret. You have to take care. The flu’s a bad
thing the way it leaves you weak after. And you’re
only out of your bed two days.
elsa. Oh, I’m really quite well again. And I was
too excited to sleep. I kept thinking of Mr. Loving’s
uncle.
(The telephone in the hall rings and Margaret goes
toward the door in rear to answer it.)
Heavens, I hope that isn’t he now. Mr. Loving phoned
me he told him to come early. But surely he wouldn’t
this early 1
margaret ( disappears in the hall. Her voice comes).
Just a moment and I’ll see if she’s in. (She appears
again in the doorway .) It’s Mrs. Hillman calling to see
you, Madame.
elsa. Oh, I’m glad. Tell h'er to come right up.
(Margaret disappears and is heard relaying this instruction.
Then she appears in the hall outsi4e the doorway , waiting
37
DAYS WITHOUT END
to answer the door. Elsa speaks to her.) I wish 1 didn’t
look so like a sick cat. Why is it everyone decides to
turn up when you look your worst ?
Margaret. Ah, you needn’t worry, Madame. You
look fine.
elsa. Well, anyway, I don’t mind Lucy.
(Nevertheless, she goes to the desk at left, rear,
takes out a vanity case , powders her nose, etc.
While she is doing this , Margaret moves to the
entrance door in the hall and is heard admitting
Mrs. Hillman and exchanging greetings with
her, as she helps her off with her things. Elsa
calls.)
Hello, Stranger.
lucy (calls back in a voice whose breeziness rings a bit
strained). That’s right, sit on me the minute I set
foot in your house ! Well, I know I deserve it.
(Elsa goes to the doorway and meets her as she comes
in, kissing her affectionately. Lucy Hillman
is about the same age as Elsa. She is still an
extremely attractive woman but, in contrast to
Elsa , her age shows, in spite of a heavy make-
up. There are wrinkles about her eyes, and
her small, full, rather weak mouth is drawn
down by sharp lines at the comers. She is
dressed expensively in clothes a bit too youthful
and extreme in style. She responds to Elsa's
greeting with a nervous constraint .)
Hello, Elsa.
elsa. You’re a nice one ! How long has' it been
38
DAYS WITHOUT END
— months ! — not since before I went to Boston in
February. (She sits on the sofa and draws Lucy down
beside her .)
lucy. I know. I’m in the dust at your feet.
elsa. I’ve phoned you a dozen times, but you were
always out. Or did you just tell them to say that ?
I’ve completely lost faith in you.
lucy. But I was out, Elsa. How can you think
elsa ( laughing — gives her a hug). You’re not taking
me seriously, are you ? I know you’d hardly do that
with me, after all these years.
lucy. Of course, I wouldn’t.
elsa. But I did wonder a little at your sudden
complete ignoring of our existence. So did John.
lucy ( hurriedly ). If you know all the stupid engage-
ments that pile up — and all the idiotic parties Walter
lets me in for. (Then changing the subject abruptly .)
May I have a cigarette ? (She takes one from the box
on the stand and lights it.) Aren’t you having one ?
elsa. Not now. (She gives Lucy a puzzled glance.
Lucy avoids her eyes , nervously flipping her cigarette over
the ash-tray. Elsa asks :) How are the kids ?
lucy. Oh, fine, thanks. At least, I think so, from
the little I get to see of them nowadays. (Bitterness has
crept into this last. She again hurriedly changes the sub-
ject.) But tell me all your news. What have you been
doing with yourself ?
elsa. Oh, the same peaceful routine — going to a
39
DAYS WITHOUT END
concert now and then, reading a lot, keeping house,
taking care of John,
lucy. The old perfect marriage that’s been the wonder
of us all, eh ? ( Again changing the subject.') What time
does John usually get home ? I don’t want to run into
him.
elsa. Oh, not for an hour or so yet. (Smiling)
But why ? What have you got against John ?
lucy ( smiling with a strange wryness). Nothing —
except myself. (Then hurriedly .) I mean, look at me,
I look like hell. I’ve had the damnedest insomnia lately.
And I’m vain enough not to crave any male viewing the
wreckage until I’ve spruced up on a bath and cocktails.
elsa. But that’s silly. You look wonderful.
lucy (dryly). Thanks, liar ! ( With a side glance oj
frank envy — unable to keep resentment out of her voice.) I
especially don’t care to be up for inspection beside you.
The contrast is too glaring.
elsa. But it’s I who look like the devil, not you. I’m
just getting over flu.
lucy. Flu makes — no, never mind. It doesn’t affect
— what I mean. (Then with a hard flippant air.)
Pardon me if I seem to indulge in the melancholy jitters.
I’m becoming the damnedest whiner and self-pitier. It’s
really too boring.
(She lights another cigarette. Her hands have a
nervous tremor. Elsa watches her with a
worried , affectionately pitying look.)
elsa. What is it, Lucy ? Tell me.
40
DAYS WITHOUT END
Lucy ( stiffening defensively). What is what ?
elsa. I want to know what’s troubling you. Now,
there’s no use denying it. I’ve known you too long. I
felt it the moment you came in, that you were upset
about something and trying to hide it.
_ lucy. I don’t know where you got that idea. (Defen-
sively flippant.) Oh, really now, Elsa. Don’t you go
psychic on us !
elsa. All right, then. Forgive my trying to pump
you. But you got me into the bad habit yourself you
know, by always coming to me with your troubles. I
only thought I might be able to help.
lucy. You ! (She gives a hard little laugh l)
elsa (hurt). You used to think I could.
lucy. “ Once, long ago ” (Then, suddenly with
repentant shamefacedness.) Forgive me, Elsa. I’m rotten
to be flip about that. You’ve been the most wonderful
friend. And I’m such an ungrateful little slut !
elsa. Lucy 1 You mustn’t say that.
lucy ( hurries on with a simulation of frankness). But
honestly, you’re mistaken this time. There’s nothing
wrong, except what seems to be wrong with everyone,
the stupid lives we lead — and, of course, the usual
financial worries. So please don’t bother your head
about my troubles.
elsa. All right, dear. (Then, after a slight pause —
casually). How is Walter these days ?
lucy ( with a twisted smile). I thought we weren’t
going to talk about my troubles ! Oh, Walter is —
4i
DAYS WITHOUT END
Walter. You know him, Elsa. Why ask ? But do you
know anyone, I wonder ? Darned if I think you ever see
what people really are. You somehow manage to live
in some lost world where human beings are still decent
and honourable. I don’t see how you do it. If you’d
always been a little innocent, protected from all ugly
contacts But, my God, your first marriage must
have slapped your face with about every filthy thing a
man can be — and that’s plenty ! Yet you sit here, calm
and beautiful and unscarred !
elsa (guietly). I had my share of scars. But the
wounds are all healed — completely healed. John’s love
has done that for me.
lucy. Yes — of course. {Then, as if she couldn't con-
trol herself, she bursts out :) Oh, you and your John !
You bring him up as the answer to everything.
elsa {smiling). Well, he is for me.
lucy. Do you mean to tell me you’re as much in
love with him now as when you married him ?
elsa. Oh, much more so, for he’s become my child
and father now, as well as being a husband and
lucy. Lover. Say it. How incredibly mid-Vic-
torian you can be ! Don’t you know that’s all we
married ladies discuss nowadays ? But you’re lucky.
Usually the men discussed aren’t our husbands, and
aren’t even good lovers. But never say die. We keep
on hoping and experimenting !
elsa ( ’repelled ). Don’t talk in that disgusting way. I
know you don’t mean a word of it.
lucy {stares at her resentfully for a second, then turns
42
DAYS WITHOUT END
away , reaching for another cigarette — dryly). Oh, you’re
quite sure of that, are you ?
elsa {gently ). Lucy, what is it has made you so
bitter ? I’ve noticed it growing on you for the past
few years, but now it’s completely got you. I — hon-
estly, I hardly know you this time, you’ve changed so.
lucy ( hurriedly ). Oh, it’s nothing that happened
lately. You mustn’t get that idea. (Then letting herself
go — with increasing bitterness .) It’s simply that I’ve
grown sick of my life, sick of all the lying and faking of
it, sick of marriage and motherhood, sick of myself 1
Particularly sick of myself because I endure the humili-
ation of Walter’s open affairs with every damned floosie
he meets ! And I’m tired of pretending I don’t mind,
tired of really minding underneath, tired of pretending
to myself I have to go on for the children’s sakes, and
that they make up to me for everything, which they
don’t at all !
elsa ( indignantly ). How can Walter be such a beast !
lucy (with a look at Elsa that is almost vindictive ).
Oh, he’s no worse than a lot of others. At least, he
doesn’t lie about it.
elsa. But, for heaven’s sake, why do you stand it ?
Why don’t you leave him ?
lucy. Oh, don’t be so superior and scornful, Elsa.
I’ll bet you wouldn’t (She checks herself abruptly .)
elsa. What do you mean ? You know very well
I left my first husband the minute I found out
lucy ( "hurriedly ). I know. I didn’t Why don’t
I leave Walter ? I guess because I’m too worn out to
43
DAYS WITHOUT END
have the guts. And then I did try it once. The first
time I knew he’d been unfaithful I did the correct thing
and went home. I intended to tell Father I was through
as Walter’s wife. Only Father was away. Mother was
there, and I broke down and told her. She took it quite
philosophically — said I was a fool to expect too much,
men were like that, even my father had (She gives
a little shiver of aversion .) That sort of squelched me.
So I went back to Walter and he doesn’t know to this
day I ever left him.
elsa. I’m so sorry, Lucy.
lucy ( returning to her air of hard cynicism ). No pity,
please. After all, the situation has its compensations.
He has tried nobly to be fair. He said I could have
equal liberty to indulge any of my sexual whims.
elsa. What a stupid fool !
lucy (bitterly). Oh, he didn’t really mean it, you
know. His vanity couldn’t admit I’d ever feel the
slightest desire outside of him. It was only a silly
gesture he felt safe in making because he was so damned
sure of me — because he knows, damn him, that in spite
of all he’s done to kill it there’s still a cowardly slavish
something in me, dating back to the happiness of our
first married days, which still — loves him ! ( She starts
to break down , but fights this back and bursts out vindictively ,
a look of ugly satisfaction coming into her face.) But I
warned him he’d humiliate me once too often — and
he did !
elsa (shocked). You mean you
lucy (with a return of her flippant tone). Yes, I went
in for a little fleeting adultery. And I must say, as a
44
DAYS WITHOUT END
love substitute or even a pleasurable diversion, it’s greatly
overrated. (She gives a hard little laugh.) How hor-
ribly shocked you look ! Are you going to order me
from your virtuous home ?
elsa. Lucy ! Don’t talk like that ! It’s only that
I can’t believe — none of this is really you. That’s what
makes it so But please don’t think I’m con-
demning you. You know how I love you, don’t you ?
lucy (stares at her with a strange -panic ). Don’t, for
God’s sake ! I don’t want you to love me ! I’d rather
you hated me !
(But Elsa pulls her to her and she breaks down
finally , sobbings her face buried against Elsa's
shoulder?)
elsa. There, there. You mustn’t, dear. (Then as
Lucy grows calmer — quietly .) Don’t think I don’t under-
stand, because I do. I felt exactly the same when I
found out about Ned Howell. Even though I’d stopped
caring for him and our marriage had always been un-
happy, my pride was so hurt I wanted to revenge myself
and take the first man I met for a lover.
lucy (looks up in amazement). You went through
that ? I never dreamed
elsa. All that saved me from doing something stupid
was the faith I had that somewhere the man was waiting
whom I could really love. I felt I owed it to him ana
to my own self-respect not to deliberately disfigure my-
self out of wounded pride and spite.
lucy (with sad bitterness). You hit it when you say
disfigure. That’s how I’ve felt ever since. Cheap !
Ugly ! As if Fd deliberately disfigured myself. And
a.w. 45 o
DAYS WITHOUT END
not only myself — the man — and others I wouldn’t hurt
for anything in the world — if I was in my right mind.
But I wasn’t ! You realize I wasn’t, don’t you, Elsa ?
You must ! You above everyone !
elsa. I do, dear. Of course I do.
lucy.. I’ve got to tell you just how it came to happen
— so you’ll see. It was one of Walter’s parties. You
know the would-be Bohemian gang he likes to have.
They were there in all their vulgarity, their poisonous,
envious tongues wise-cracking at everything with any
decent human dignity and worth. Oh, there were a
few others there, too — our own people — this man was
one of them. Walter was drunk, pawing over his latest
female, and she got him to go home with her. Every-
body watched me to see how I’d take it. I wanted to
kill him and her, but I only laughed and had some more
to drink. But I was in hell, I can tell you, and inside I
kept swearing to myself that I’d show Walter And
I picked out this man — yes, deliberately ! It was all
deliberate and crazy ! And I had to do all the seducing
— because he’s quite happy. I knew that, but I was
crazy. His happiness filled me with rage — the thought
that he made others happy. I wanted to take his
happiness from him and kill it as mine had been killed !
elsa. Lucy !
lucy (with a hard laugh). I told you I was in hell,
didn’t I ? You can’t live there without becoming like
the rest of the crowd 1 ( Hurrying on with her story.) I
got him in my bedroom on some excuse. But he pushed
me away, as if he were disgusted with himself and me.
But I wouldn’t let him go. And then came the strange
part of it. Suddenly, I don’t know how to explain it,
DAYS WITHOUT END
you’ll think I’m crazy, or being funny, but it was as if
he were no longer there. It was another man, a stranger
whose eyes were hateful and frightening. He seemed
to look through me at someone else, and I seemed for
a moment to be watching some hidden place in his mind
where there was something as evil and revengeful as I
was. It frightened and fascinated me — and called to
me too ; that’s the hell of it ! {She forces a laugh.) I
suppose all this sounds too preposterous. Well, maybe
it was the booze working. I’d had a lot. {She reaches
for a cigarette — returning to her hard flippancy.) And then
followed my little dip into adultery.
elsa {with a little shiver of repulsion). Oh !
lucy. But what a hideous bore this must be to you.
Why did I have to tell you, I wonder. It was the last
thing I ever wanted {Turns on her in a flask of re-
sentful vindictiveness. ) It makes me out worse than you
expected, eh ? But suppose John were unfaithful to
you
elsa {startled — frigktenedly). Don’t ! {Then indig-
nantly.) Lucy ! I won’t have you say that, not
even
lucy. I’m only asking you to suppose.
elsa. I can’t ! I won’t ! And I won’t let you !
It’s too ! {Then controlling herself — forcing a smile l)
But I’m a bigger fool than you are to get angry. You
simply don’t know John, that’s all. You don’t know
what an old-fashioned romantic idealist he is at heart
about love and marriage. And I thank God he is !
You’ll laugh at me but I know he never had a single affair
in his life before he met me.
47
DAYS WITHOUT END
lucy. Oh, come on, Elsa. That’s too much !
elsa. Oh, please don’t think I’m a naive fool. I
was as cynical about men in those days as you are now.
I wouldn’t have believed it of another man in the world,
but with John I felt it was absolutely true to what I knew
he was like inside him.
lucy. You loved him and you wanted to believe.
elsa. No. Even before I loved him, I felt that.
It was what made me love him, more than anything else
— the feeling that he would be mine, only mine, that I
wouldn’t have to share him even with the past. If you
only could realize how much that meant to me — especi-
ally at that time, when I was still full of the disgust and
hurt of my first marriage.
lucy. Well, that’s all very fine, but it’s not proving
to me how you can be so certain that never since then
elsa {proudly). I know he loves me. I know he
knows how much I love him. He knows what that would
do to me. It would kill for ever all my faith in life —
all truth, all beauty, all love ! I wouldn’t want to live !
lucy. You shouldn’t let yourself be so completely
at the mercy of any man — not even John.
elsa. I’m not afraid. (She smiles .) The trouble
with you is, you old cynic, you can’t admit that our
marriage is a real ideal marriage. But it is — and that’s
entirely John’s work, not mine.
lucy. His work ?
elsa. Yes. When I first met him I thought I was
through with marriage for good. Even after I fell in
48
DAYS WITHOUT END
love with him, I didn’t want to marry. I was afraid of
marriage. I proposed quite frankly that we should
simply live together and each keep entire freedom of
action. {She laughs .) Oh, I was quite ultra-modern
about it ! And it shocked John terribly, poor dear — in
spite of all his old radical ideas. I’m sure it almost
disillusioned him with me for life ! He sternly scorned
my offer. He argued with me. How he argued — like
a missionary converting a heathen 1 He said he loathed
the ordinary marriage as much as I did, but that the ideal
in back of marriage was a beautiful one, and he knew
we could realize that ideal.
lucy. Ah, yes, the ideal 1 I heard a little talk about
that once, too !
elsa. He said no matter if every other marriage on
earth were rotten and a lie, our love could make ours
into a true sacrament — sacrament was the word he used
— a sacrament of faith in which each of us would find
the completest self-expression in making our union a
beautiful thing. {She smiles lovingly .) You see, all
this was what I had longed to hear the man I loved say
about the spiritual depth of his love for me — what every
woman dreams of hearing her lover say, I think.
lucy ( stirring uneasily — mechanically). Yes. I know.
elsa. And, of course, it blew my petty modern
selfishness right out the window. I couldn’t believe he
meant it at first, but when I saw he did, that finished
me. {She smiles — then with quiet pride l) And I think
we’ve lived up to that ideal ever since. I hope I have.
I know he has. It was his creation, you see.
lucy. Of course he has. Of course.
49
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa. And our marriage has meant for us, not slavery
or boredom but freedom and harmony within ourselves
— and happiness. So we must have both lived true to it.
Happiness is proof, isn’t it ?
lucy ( deeply moved — without looking at Elsa , takes her
hand and squeezes it — huskily). Of course it is. Please
forget the stupid rot I’ve said. I was only trying to
get a rise out of you. We all know how wonderfully
happy you and John are. Only remember, the world is
full of spiteful liars who would do anything to wreck
your happiness and drag you down to their level — what
I was doing. So never listen But of course you
won’t, will you ? You have faith. ( She turns and kisses
her impulsively .) God bless you — and preserve your
happiness !
elsa. Thank you, Lucy. That’s dear of you.
(Then puzzledly .) But why should you be afraid that
anyone
lucy (jumps to her jeet nervously ). Only my morbid-
ness. I’ve been accused of so many rotten things I
never did that I suppose I’m hipped on the subject.
( Then abruptly .) Got to run now, Elsa — go home and
get on my armour for another of Walter’s parties. It’s
a gay life. The only hope is he’ll be so broke before long
no one will call on us but our forgotten friends. (She
gives a bitter little laugh and starts to go around the left oj
sofa — then, at a noise of a door opening in the hall — ner-
vously .) Isn’t that someone ?
elsa. It must be John. (She hurries around the right
of sofa and back towards the doorway .)
John (calls from the hall). Hello.
elsa (going out, meets him as he appears in the hall
5 °
DAYS WITHOUT END
just beyond the doorway — kissing him). Hello, da rling.
You’re early. I’m so glad.
john. I thought, as I’d told Uncle to come early, I
better (He kisses her.) How do you feel, dear ?
You look much better.
elsa. Oh, I’m fine, John.
(Lucy has remained standing by the left comer of the
sofa , in a stiff , strained attitude , the expression
on her face that of one caught in a comer ,
steeling herself for an ordeal. Elsa and John
come in , their arms around each other. As
they do so, Lucy recovers her poise and calls to
him.)
lucy. Hello, John.
john (coming to her, his face wearing its most cordial,
poker-faced smile). Why, hello, Lucy, I thought I heard
a familiar voice when I came in. (They shake hands.)
A pleasant surprise. Been a long time since we’ve had
this pleasure.
(Elsa has come forward behind him. The figure of
the masked Loving appears in the doorway.
During the next few speeches he moves silently
to the corner of the long table before the window ,
right-front, and stands there, without looking
at them, facing front, his eyes fixed in the same
cold stare, the expression of his masked face
seeming to be more than ever sneering and
sinister.)
lucy. Now, don’t you begin on that ! Elsa has
already given me hell.
5 1
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa (laughing). And she’s repented and been forgiven.
john. Oh, that’s all right, then.
lucy (nervously). I was just leaving. Sorry I’ve got
to run, John.
elsa. Oh, you can’t, now. John will think he’s
driven you out.
lucy. No, really, Elsa, I
elsa. You simply must keep John company for a
few minutes. Because I’ve got to go to the kitchen.
I trust Emmy on ordinary occasions, but when a long-
lost uncle is coming to dinner, a little personal super-
vision is in order. (She moves toward the dining-room at
left.)
lucy (with a note of desperation). Well — but I can’t
stay more than a second.
elsa. I’ll be back right away.
(She disappears through the dining-room door. The
moment she is gone, John's cordial smile van-
ishes and his face takes on a tense , harried look.
He is now standing behind the right end of
sofa , Lucy behind the left end. In the pause
while they wait for Elsa to get out of earshot.
Loving moves silently over until he is standing
just behind John but a step toward rear from
him , facing half toward him, half toward
front)
john ( lowering his voice — hurriedly). I hope you’ve
been careful and not said anything that
lucy. Might give you away ? Of course, I didn’t.
52 '
DAYS WITHOUT END
And even if I were rotten enough to come right out and
tell her, she’d never believe me, she has such a touching
faith in you.
John (wincing). Don’t !
lucy. No. You’re perfectly safe. There’s only one
thing I’ve got to warn you about. It’s nothing, really,
but
john. What ?
lucy. Walter has been telling people. He has to,
you see, to keep up his pose of friendly understanding
john. But how does Walter know ?
lucy. Don’t look so dismayed ! He doesn’t know
— who it was. And you’d be the last one he’d ever
suspect.
john. How is it he knows about you ?
lucy ( hesitates — then defiantly). I told him.
john. You told him ? In God’s name, why ? But
I know. You couldn’t resist — watching him squirm !
lucy (stung). Exactly, John. Why do you suppose
I ever did it, except for his benefit — if you want the
truth.
John. Good God, don’t you think I know that ?
Do you imagine I ever thought it was anything but
revenge on your part ?
lucy. And whom were you revenging yourself on,
John ? — now we’re being frank.
loving (with sinister mockery). Who knows ? Per-
haps on love. Perhaps, in my soul, I hate love !
53
DAYS WITHOUT END
lucy {stares at John with frightened bewilderment').
John ! Now you’re like — that night !
John ( confusedly ). I ? It wasn’t I. ( Angrily .)
What do you mean by saying I was revenging myself?
Why should I revenge myself on her ?
lucy. I don’t know, John. That’s a matter for
your conscience. I’ve got enough on my own, thank
you. I must say I resent your attitude, John. {With
a flippant sneer l) Hardly the lover-like tone, is it ?
John ( with disgust ). Lover !
lucy. Oh, I know. I feel the same way. But
why hate me ? Why not hate yourself ?
John. As if I didn’t ! Good God, if you knew !
( Then bitterly .) And how long do you think you’ll be
able to resist telling Walter it was I, his old friend —
so you can watch him squirm some more 1
lucy. John !
John. And Walter will have to tell that to everyone,
too— to live up to his pose ! And then
lucy. John ! You know I wouldn’t, even if I
hated you as you seem to hate me. I wouldn’t for
Elsa’s sake. Oh, I know you think I’m a rotten liar,
but I love Elsa ! {Then brokenly.) Oh, it’s such a vile
mess ! What fools we were !
John (dully). Yes. (Bitterly again.) I’m sorry I
can’t trust you, Lucy. I can when you’re yourself.
But full of booze I see what it will come to.
I’ll have to tell her myself to save her the humiliation of
hearing it through dirty gossip !
5 4
DAYS WITHOUT END
lucy. John ! Oh, please don’t be such a fool !
Please !
john. You think she couldn’t forgive ?
lucy. I’m thinking of what it would do to her.
Can’t you see ?
john ( 'wamingly , as he hears the pantry door opening).
Ssshh ! ( Quickly , raising his voice to a conversational
tone.) Uncle is a grand old fellow. You’ll have to
meet him some time. You’d like him.
lucy. I’m sure I would. (Then, as Elsa comes in
from the dining-room.) Ah, here you are. Well, I’ve
got to fly. (She holds out her hand to Johnf Good-
bye, John. Take care of Elsa.
john. Good-bye, Lucy.
(Elsa puts an arm around her waist and they go
back to the hall doorwayl)
elsa. I’ll get your things.
(They disappear in the hall. As soon as they have
gone , John turns and, coming around the sofa,
sits down on it and stares before him with
hunted eyes. Loving moves until he is stand-
ing directly behind him. He bends over and
whispers mockingly .)
loving. I warned you it was closing in ! You had
better make up your mind now to tell the rest of your
novel to-night — while there is still time 1
john (tensely). Yes. I must.
loving. But, first it still remains to decide what is to
55
DAYS WITHOUT END
be your hero’s end. (He gives a little jeering laugh.)
Strange, isn’t it, what difficult problems your little
dabble in fiction has brought up which demand a final
answer !
(He laughs again — then turns to face the doorway as
Elsa re-enters the room. His eyes remain fixed
on her as she comes forward. She comes
quietly to the right end of the sofa. John
does not notice her coming. Loving remains
standing at right , rear , of John.)
elsa. A penny for your thoughts, John. (He starts.
She sits down beside him — with a smile f Did I scare you ?
John (forcing a smile). Don’t know what’s the matter
with me. I seem to have the nervous jumps lately.
(Then carelessly.) Glad to see Lucy again, were you ?
elsa. Yes — of course. Only she’s changed so.
Poor Lucy.
John. Why poor ? Oh, you mean on account of
Walter’s antics ?
elsa. Then you know ?
John. Who doesn’t ? He’s been making as public
an ass of himself as possible. But let’s not talk about
Walter. What did you think of the big event to-day :
Uncle dropping out of the blue ?
elsa. It must have been a surprise for you. I’m
dying to meet him. I’m so glad he could come to-night.
John. Yes. So am I.
(As if his conversation had run dry , he falls into an
uneasy silence. Elsa looks at him worriedly.
Then she nestles up close to him.)
56
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa {tenderly). Still love me, do you ?
John {takes her in his arms and kisses her- — with intense
feeling). You know I do ! There’s nothing in life I
give a damn about except your love ! You know that,
don’t you ?
elsa. Yes, dear.
John {avoiding her eyes now). And you’ll always
love me — no matter what an unworthy fool I am ?
elsa. Ssshh 1 You mustn’t say things like that.
It’s not true. (Then smiling teasingly.) Well, if you love
me so much, prove it by telling me.
John ( controlling a start). Telling you what ?
elsa. Now, don’t pretend. I know there’s some-
thing that’s been troubling you for weeks — ever since I
came back from Boston.
john. No, honestly, Elsa.
elsa. Something you’re keeping back because you’re
afraid of worrying me. So you might as well confess.
John (forcing a smile). Confess ? And will you
promise — to forgive ?
elsa. Forgive you for not wanting to worry me ?
Foolish one !
john ( hurriedly ). No, I was only joking. There’s
nothing.
elsa. Now ! But I think I can guess. It’s about
business, isn’t it ?
57
DAYS WITHOUT END
John (grasps at this). Well — yes, if you must know.
elsa. And you were afraid that would upset me ?
Oh, John, you’re such a child at times you ought to be
spanked. You must think I’ve become a poor, helpless
doll !
JOHN. No, but
elsa. Just because you’ve pampered me so terribly
the past few years ! But remember, we had barely
enough to get along on when we were married — and I
didn’t appear so terribly unhappy then, did I ? And
no matter how poor we become, do you think it would
ever really matter one bit to me as long as I had you ?
john (stammers miserably ). Sweetheart ! You make
me feel — so damned ashamed ! God, I can’t tell you !
elsa ( kissing him). But, darling, it’s nothing ! And
now promise me you’ll forget it and not worry any
more ?
John. Yes.
elsa. Good ! Let’s talk of something else. Tell
me, have you been doing anything more on the rest of
your idea for a novel ?
john. Yes, I — I’ve got most of it thought out.
elsa (encouragingly). That’s splendid. You just put
your mind on that and forget your silly worries. But
when am I going to hear it ?
john. Well, I told Uncle the first part and he was
curious, too. So I threatened him I might give you
both an outline of the rest to-night.
58
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa. Oh, that’s fine. (Then she laughs .) And I’ll
confess it will be a great aid to me as a hostess. I’ll
probably feel a bit self-conscious, entertaining a strange
priest-uncle for the first time.
john. Oh, you won’t be with him a minute before
you’ll feel he’s an old friend.
elsa. Well, that sounds encouraging. But you tell
your story just the same. (She gets up.) It must be
getting on. I’d better go up and start getting dressed.
(She goes around the left end of the sofa and back toward
the hall door.) Are you going up to your study for a
while ?
john. Yes, in a minute. I want to do a little more
work on my plot. The end isn’t clearly worked out
yet.
loving. That is, my hero’s end !
elsa (smiling at John encouragingly). Then you get
busy, by all means, so you’ll have no excuse !
(She goes out. As soon as she is gone , John's
expression changes and becomes tense and hunted
again. Loving remains standing behind him ,
staring down at him with cold , scornful eyes .
There is a pause of silence.)
john (suddenly — his face full of the bitterest , tortured
self-loathing — aloud to himself). You God-damned rotten
swine !
loving ( mockingly ). Yes, unfit to live. Quite unfit
for life, I think. But there is always death to wash one’s
sins away — sleep, untroubled by Love’s betraying dream !
59
DAYS WITHOUT END
(He gives a low , sinister laugh.) Merely a consoling
reminder — in case you’ve forgotten !
(John listens fascinatedly^ as if to an inner voice.
Then a look of terror comes into his face and he
shudders.)
John (torturedly). For God’s sake ! Leave me alone !
Curtain
6 o
ACT THREE
PLOT FOR A NOVEL
{Continued)
SCENE ONE
scene. The living-room again. It is immediately after
dinner. Father Baird is sitting in the chair at left,
front, Elsa on the sofa, John beside her on her left,
the masked Loving at right, rear, of John , in the chair
by the end of the table before the window. John and
Loving are in dinner clothes of identical cut. Elsa
wears a white evening gown of extremely simple lines.
Father Baird is the same as in Act One.
Margaret is serving them the after-dinner coffee.
She goes out through the dining-room door.
john (puts an arm around Elsa's waist playfully). Well,
now you’ve got to know her, what do you think of her,
Uncle ? Weren’t my letters right ?
father baird (gallantly). They were much too feeble.
You didn’t do her justice by half !
elsa. Thank you, Father. It’s so kind of you to
say that.
john. Ah ! I told you that was one subject we’d
agree on ! ( Then to Elsa in a tenderly chiding tone)
But I’ve got a bone to pick with you, my lady. You
ate hardly any dinner, do you know it ?
a.w. 6 1
p
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa. Oh, but I did, dear.
john. No, you only went through the motions. I
was watching you. That’s no way to get back your
strength.
father baird. Yes, you need all the nourishment
you can take when you’re getting over the flu.
john ( 'worriedly — -grasping her hand). Sure you’re
warm enough ? Want me to get you something to put
over your shoulders ?
elsa. No, dear, thank you.
john. Remember it’s a rotten, chilly, rainy day out
and even indoors you can’t be too careful.
elsa. Oh, but I’m quite all right now, John. Please
don’t worry about me.
john. Well, don’t let yourself get tired now, you
hear ? If you find yourself feeling at all worn-out, you
just send Uncle and me off to my study. He’ll under-
stand. Won’t you, Uncle ?
father baird. Of course. I hope Elsa will feel
I’m one of the family and treat me without ceremony.
elsa. I do feel that, Father. {Then teasingly .) But
do you know what I think is behind all this solicitude of
John’s ? He’s simply looking for an excuse to get
out of telling us the rest of his novel. But we won’t let
him back out, will we ?
father baird. Indeed we won’t.
elsa. The first part is so unusual and interesting.
Don’t you think so, Father ?
62
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird (quietly). Yes. Tragic and revealing
to me.
elsa. You see, John, it’s no use. We’re simply
going to insist.
loving (coldly mocking). You’re sure — you insist ?
elsa. Of course I do. So come on.
JOHN (nervously). Well (He hesitates — gulps
down the rest of his coffee.)
elsa (smiling). I never saw you so flustered before,
John. You’d think you were going to address ah
audience of literary critics.
John (begins jerkily). Well But before I start,
there’s one thing I want to impress on you both again.
My plot, up to the last part, which is wholly imaginary,
is taken from life. It’s the story of a man I once
knew.
loving (mockingly). Or thought I knew.
elsa. May I be inquisitive ? Did I ever know the
man ?
loving (a hostile , repellent note in his voice). No. I
can swear to that. You have never known him.
elsa (taken aback , gives John a wondering look — then
apologetically). I’m sorry I butted in with a silly question.
Go on, dear.
John ( nervously — forcing a laugh). I It’s hard
getting started. (He turns and reaches for his coffee, forgetting
he has drunk it — sets the cup down again abruptly and goes
on hurriedly.) Well, you will remember my first part
ended when the boy’s parents had died.
63
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving. And he had denied all his old superstitions I
john. Well, as you can imagine, for a long while
after their deaths, he went through a terrific inner con-
flict. He was seized by fits of terror, in which he felt
he really had given his soul to some evil power. He
would feel a tortured longing to pray and beg for for-
giveness. It seemed to him that he had forsworn all
love for ever — and was cursed. At these times he
wanted only to die. Once he even took his father’s
revolver
loving ( 'sneeringly ). But he was afraid to face death.
He was still too religious-minded, you see, to accept the
one beautiful, comforting truth of life : that death is
final release, the warm, dark peace of annihilation.
father baird (quietly). I cannot see the beauty and
comfort.
loving. He often regretted afterwards he had not
had the courage to die then. It would have saved him
so much silly romantic pursuit of meaningless illusions.
elsa (uneasily). Oh, you mustn’t talk that way,
John. It sounds so bitter — and false — coming from
you.
john (confusedly). I I didn’t You for-
get I’m simply following what this man told me. (Hurry-
ing on.) Well, finally, he came out of this period of black
despair. He taught himself to take a rationalistic
attitude. He read all sorts of scientific books. He
ended up by becoming an atheist. But his experience
had left an indelible scar on his spirit. There always
remained something in him that felt itself damned by
life, damned with distrust, cursed with the inability ever
DAYS WITHOUT END
to reach a lasting belief in any faith, damned by a fear
of the lie hiding behind the mask of truth.
FATHER BAIRD. Ah !
loving (sneeringly). So romantic, you see — to think of
himself as possessed by a damned soul !
John. And in after years, even at the height of his
rationalism, he never could explain away a horror of
death — and a strange fascination it had for him. And
coupled with this was a dread of life — as if he constantly
sensed a malignant Spirit hiding behind life, waiting to
catch men at its mercy, in their hour of secure happi-
ness Something that hated life ! Something
that laughed with mocking scorn !
(He stares before him with a fascinated dread , as if
he saw this Something before him. Then ,
suddenly , as if in reply , honing gives a little
mocking laugh , barely audible. John shudders.
Elsa and Father Baird start and stare at John
uneasily , but he is looking straight ahead and
they turn away again . )
loving. A credulous, religious-minded fool, as I’ve
pointed out ! And he carried his credulity into the
next period of his life, where he believed in one social
or philosophical Ism after another, always on the trail of
Truth ! He was never courageous enough to face what
he really knew was true, that there is no truth for men,
that human life is unimportant and meaningless. No.
He was always grasping at some absurd new faith to find
an excuse for going on !
John (proudly ). And he did go on ! And he found
his truth at last — in love, where he least expected he ever
65
DAYS WITHOUT END
would find it. For he had always been afraid of love.
And when he met the woman who afterwards became his
wife and realized he was in love with her, it threw him
into a panic of fear. He wanted to run away from her
— but found he couldn’t.
loving ( scornfully ). So he weakly surrendered — and
immediately began building a new superstition of love
around her.
john. He was happy again for the first time since
his parents’ death — to his bewildered joy.
loving ( mockingly ). And secret fear !
elsa {gives John a curious , uneasy glance). Secret
fear?
john. Yes, he — he came to be afraid of his happi-
ness. His love made him feel at the mercy of that
mocking Something he dreaded. And the more peace
and security he found in his wife’s love, the more he
was haunted by fits of horrible foreboding — the recur-
rent dread that she might die and he would be left alone
again, without love. So great was the force of this
obsession at times that he felt caught in a trap,
desperate
loving. And he often found himself regretting
john {hastily). Against his will
loving {inexorably). That he had again let love put
him at the mercy of life !
john ( hurriedly ). But, of course, he realized this was
all morbid and ridiculous — for wasn’t he happier than
he had ever dreamed he could be again ?
66
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving ( with gloating mockery). And so he deliber-
ately destroyed that happiness 1
elsa (startledly). Destroyed his happiness ? How,
John ?
John (turns to her , forcing a smile). I’m afraid you
will find this part of his story hard to believe, Elsa.
This damned fool, who loved his wife more than anything
else in life, was unfaithful to her. ( Father Baird, starts
and stares at him with a shocked expression .)
elsa (Jrightenedly ). It is — hard to believe. But this
part is all the story of the man you knew, isn’t it ?
john. Yes, of course, and you mustn’t condemn
him entirely until you’ve heard how it came to happen.
(He turns away from her again — -jerkily.) His wife had
gone away. It was the first time. He felt lost without
her — fearful, disintegrated. His familiar dread seized
him. He began imagining all sorts of catastrophes.
Horrible pictures formed in his mind. She was run
over by a car. Or she had caught pneumonia and lay
dying. Every day these evil visions possessed him.
He tried to escape them in work. He couldn’t. (He
pauses for a second, nerving himself to go on. Then starts
again '. ) Then one night an old friend called — to drag
him off to a party. He loathed such affairs usually, but
this time he thought it would help him to escape
himself for a while. So he went. He observed with
disgust how his friend, who was drunk, was pawing over
some woman right under the nose of his wife. He knew
that this friend was continually having affairs of this
sort and that his wife was aware of it. He had often
wondered if she cared, and he was curious now to watch
her reactions. And very soon he had an example of
67
DAYS WITHOUT END
what her pride had to endure, for the husband went off
openly with his lady. The man felt a great sympathy
for her — and, as if she guessed his thought, she came to
him, and he overdid himself in being kind. (He gives a
short bitter laugh.) A great mistake ! For she reacted
to it in a way that at first shocked him but ended up in
arousing his curiosity. He had known her for years.
It wasn’t like her. It fascinated him, in a way, that she
should have become so corrupted. He became interested
to see how far she would go with it — purely as an observer,
he thought — the poor idiot ! (He laughs again. Father
Baird has remained motionless , his eyes on the floor. Elsa's
face is pale and set , her eyes have a bewildered , stricken look.
John goes on.) Remember, all this time he saw through
her ; he laughed to himself at her crude vamping ; he
felt he was only playing a game. Just as he knew she
was playing a game ; that it was no desire for him but
hatred for her husband that inspired her. (He gives a
short contemptuous laugh again.) Oh, he had it all analysed
quite correctly, considering the known elements. It was
the unknown
father baird (without raising his head). Yes.
(He casts a quick glance at Elsa , then looks as quickly
away. Her eyes are fastened on the floor
now. Her face has frozen into a mask with
the tense effort she is making not to give herself
away.)
joh n. He had not the slightest desire for this woman.
When she threw herself into his arms, he was repelled.
He determined to end the game. He thought of his
wife (He forces a laugh.) But, as I’ve said, there
was the unknown to reckon with. At the thought of his
68 K
DAYS WITHOUT END
wife, suddenly it was as if something outside him, a
hidden spirit of evil, took possession of him.
loving ( coldly vindictive now). That is, he saw clearly
that this situation was the climax of a long death struggle
between his wife and him. The woman with him
counted only as a means. He saw that underneath all
his hypocritical pretences he really hated love. He
wanted to deliver himself from its power and be free again.
He wanted to kill it !
elsa (with horrified fain). Oh ! (Trying to control
herself.) I — I don’t understand. He hated love ? He
wanted to kill it ? But that’s — too horrible !
john (stammers confusedly). No — I Don’t you
see it wasn’t he ?
loving. But, I’m afraid, Elsa, that my hero’s silly
idea that he was possessed by a demon must strike
you as an incredible superstitious excuse to lie out of his
responsibility.
father baird (without lifting his eyes — quietly). Quite
credible to me, Jack. One may not give one’s soul to a
devil of hate — and remain for ever scatheless.
loving (sneeringly). As for the adultery itself, the
truth is that this poor fool was making a great fuss about
nothing — an act as meaningless as that of one fly with
another, of equal importance to life !
elsa ( stares at John as if he had become a stranger — a
look of sick re-pulsion coming over her face). John ! You’re
disgusting ! (She shrinks away from him to the end of the
sofa near Father Baird.)
john (stammers confusedly). But I — I didn’t mean —
69
DAYS WITHOUT END
forgive me. I only said that — as a joke — to get a rise
out of Uncle.
father baird (gives a quick anxious look at Elsa — then
quietly, an undercurrent of sternness in his voice). I don’t
think it’s a joke. But go on with your story, Jack.
John {forcing himself to go on). Well I — I know you
can imagine the hell he went through from the moment
he came to himself and realized the vileness he had been
guilty of. He couldn’t forgive himself — and that’s
what his whole being now cried out for — forgiveness !
father baird {quietly). I can well believe that, Jack.
john. He wanted to tell his wife and beg for for-
giveness — but he was afraid of losing her love. {He
gives a quick glance at Elsa, as if to catch her reaction to
this, but she is staring straight before her with a still, set
face. He forces a smile and adopts a joking tone.) And
here’s where I’d like to have your opinion, Elsa. The
question doesn’t come up in my story, as you’ll see,
but Could his wife have forgiven him, do you
think ?
elsa {starts — then tensely). You want me to put my-
self in the wife’s place ?
john. Yes. I want to see whether the man was a
fool or not — in his fear.
elsa {after a second's pause — tensely). No. She could
never forgive him.
john {desperately). But it wasn’t he ! Can’t you
see
elsa. No. I’m afraid — I can’t see.
70
DAYS WITHOUT END
john {dully now). Y es. That’s what I thought you’d
say.
elsa. But what does it matter what I think ? You
said the question of her forgiving doesn’t come up in
your novel.
loving (coldly). Not while the wife is alive.
john (dully). He never tells her.
loving. She becomes seriously ill.
elsa (with a start). Oh.
loving (in a cold voice, as if he were -pronouncing a death
sentence). ’Flu, which turns into pneumonia. And she
dies.
elsa (Jrightenedly now). Dies ?
loving. Yes. I need her death for my end. (Then
in a sinister, jeering toned) That is, to make my romantic
hero come finally to a rational conclusion about his life !
elsa (stares before her, not seeming to have heard this last
— her eyes full of a strange, horrified fascination — as if she
were talking aloud to herself). So she dies.
father baird (after a worried glance at her — an under-
current of warning in his quiet toni). I think you’ve tired
Elsa out with your sensational imaginings, Jack. I’d
spare her, for the present, at least, the fog of gloom your
novel is plunging into.
elsa (grasps at this — tensely). Yes, I’m afraid it has
been too exciting I really don’t feel up to
During dinner I began to get a headache and it’s splitting
now.
7i
DAYS WITHOUT END
John {gets up — worriedly). But why didn’t you tell
me ? If I’d known that, I’d never have bored you with
my damned plot.
elsa. I — I think I’ll lie down here on the sofa — and
take some aspirin — and rest for a while. You can go
with your uncle up to your study — and tell him the rest
of your story there.
father baird (gets up). An excellent idea. Come
on, Jack, and give your poor wife a respite from
the horrors of authorship. (He goes to the doorway in
rear.)
John (comes to Elsa. As he does so , Loving comes
and stands behind her, at rear of sofa). I’m so darned
sorry, Elsa, if I’ve
elsa. Oh, please ! It’s only a headache.
John. You — you don’t feel really sick, do you,
dearest ? (He puts a hand to her forehead timidly.)
elsa (shrinks from his touch). No, no, it’s nothing.
loving (slowly, in his cold tone with its undercurrent of
sinister hidden meaning). You must be very careful,
Elsa. Remember it’s cold and raining out.
elsa (staring before her strangely — repeats fascinatedly).
It’s raining ?
loving. Yes.
john (stammers confusedly ). Yes, you — you must be
careful, dearest.
father baird (from the doorway in rear — sharply).
Come along, Jack !
72
DAYS WITHOUT END
{John goes back to hint and Loving follows John.
Father Baird goes into the hall, turning left to go
upstairs to the study. John stops in the door-
way and looks back for a moment at Elsa
frightenedly. Loving comes to his side and
also stops and looks at her , his eyes cold and
remorseless in his mask of sinister mockery.
They stand there for a moment side by side.
Then John turns and disappears in the hall
toward left , following Father Baird. Loving
remains , his gaze concentrated on the back of
Elsa's head with a cruel, implacable intensity.
She is still staring before her with the same
strange fascinated dread . Then , as if in
obedience to his will , she rises slowly to her
feet and walks slowly and woodenly back past
him and disappears in the hall. , turning right
toward the entrance door to the apartment.
For a second Loving remains looking after her.
Then he turns and disappears in the hall
toward left , following Father Baird and John
to the study .)
Curtain
scene TWO
scene. John Loving's study on the upper floor of the apart-
ment. At left , front , is a door leading into Elsa's
bedroom. Bookcases extend along the rear and right
walls. There is a door to the upper hall at rear,
right. A long table with a lamp is at centre , front.
At left of table is a chair. In front of table a similar
chair. At right , front , is a chaise-longue , facing left.
73
DAYS WITHOUT END
Father Baird , 'John and Loving are discovered .
The priest is sitting on the chaise-longue , John in the
chair at front of table , Loving in the chair at left of
table. Father Baird sits in the same attitude as he had
in the previous scene , his eyes on the floor , his expression
sad and a bit stern. Loving's masked face stares at
John, his eyes cold and still. John is talking in a
strained tone , monotonously , insistently. It is as if he
were determinedly talking to keep himself from thinking.
john. I listen to people talking about this
universal breakdown we are in and I marvel at their
stupid cowardice. It is so obvious that they deliberately
cheat themselves because their fear of change won’t let
them face the truth. They don’t want to understand
what has happened to them. All they want is to start
the merry-go-round of blind greed all over again. They
no longer know what they want this country to be, what
they want it to become, where they want it to go. It has
lost all meaning for them except as a pig-wallow. And
so their lives as citizens have no beginnings, no ends.
They have lost the ideal of the Land of the Free. Free-
dom demands initiative, courage, the need to decide
what life must mean to oneself. To them, that is
terror. They explain away their spiritual cowardice by
whining that the time for individualism is past, when
it is their courage to possess their own souls which is
dead — and stinking ! No, they don’t want to be free.
Slavery means security — of a kind, the only kind they
have courage for. It means they need not think. They
have only to obey orders from owners who are, in turn,
their slaves !
loving ( breaks in — with bored scorn). But I’m de-
nouncing from my old soap-box again. It’s all silly
74
DAYS WITHOUT END
twaddle, of course. Freedom was merely our romantic
delusion. We know better now. We know we are all
the slaves of meaningless chance — electricity or some-
thing, which whirls us — on to Hercules 1
john (with a proud assertiveness ). But, in spite of that,
I say : Very well ! On to Hercules ! Let us face
that ! Once we have accepted it without evasion, we can
begin to create new goals for ourselves, ends for our
days ! A new discipline for life will spring into being,
a new will and power to live, a new ideal to measure the
value of our lives by !
loving ( mockingly ). What ? Am I drooling on
about my old social ideals again ? Sorry to bore you,
Uncle.
father baird ( quietly , without looking up). You are
not boring me, Jack.
john (an idealistic exaltation coming into his voice).
We need a new leader who will teach us that ideal, who
by his life will exemplify it and make it a living truth
for us — a man who will prove that man’s fleeting life in
time and space can be noble. We need, above all, to
learn again to believe in the possibility of nobility of
spirit in ourselves ! A new saviour must be born who will
reveal to us how we can be saved from ourselves, so that
we can be free of the past and inherit the future and not
perish by it !
loving (mockingly). Must sound like my old letters
to you, Uncle. It’s more nonsense, of course. But
there are times of stress and flight when one hides in any
old empty barrel !
father baird ( ignoring this — quietly). You are for-
7 5
DAYS WITHOUT END
getting that men have such a Saviour, Jack. All they
need is to remember Him.
john (slowly). Yes, perhaps if we could again have
faith in
loving {harshly). No ! We have passed beyond
gods ! There can be no going back !
father baird. Jack ! Take care !
loving (mockingly again). But, on the other hand,
I'll grant you the pseudo-Nietzschean saviour I just
evoked out of my past is an equally futile ghost. Even
if he came, we’d only send him to the insane asylum for
teaching that we should have a nobler aim for our lives
than getting all four feet in a trough of swill 1 (He
laughs sardonically .) How could we consider such an
unpatriotic idea as anything but insane, eh ?
( There is a pause. Father Baird looks up and
studies John's face searchingly , hopefully .)
father baird (finally speaks quietly). Jack, ever since
we came upstairs, I’ve listened patiently while you’ve
discussed every subject under the sun except the one I
know is really on your mind.
john. I don’t know what you mean.
father baird. The end of our story.
john. Oh, forget that. I’m sick of the damned
thing — now, at any rate.
father baird. Sick of the damned thing, yes.
That’s why I feel it’s important you tell it — now. This
man’s wife dies, you said. (He stares fixedly at John now
76
DAYS WITHOUT END
and adds slowly .) Of influenza which turns into
pneumonia.
John {uneasily). Why do you stare like that ?
father baird {dropping his eyes — quietly ). Go on
with your story.
John ( hesitantly ). Well — I You can imagine
the anguish he feels after his wife’s death — the guilt
which tortures him a thousandfold now she is dead.
father baird. I can well imagine it, Jack.
loving {sneeringly). And under the influence of his
ridiculous guilty conscience, all the superstitions of his
childhood, which he had prided himself his reason had
killed, return to plague him. He feels at times an
absurd impulse to pray. He fights this nonsense back.
He analyses it rationally. He sees it clearly as a throw-
back to boyhood experiences. But, in spite of himself,
that cowardly something in him he despises as super-
stition seduces his reason with the old pathetic life of
survival after death. He begins to believe his wife is
alive in some mythical hereafter !
John {strangely). He knows she knows of his sin now.
He can hear her promising to forgive if he can only
believe again in his old God of Love, and seek her through
Him. She will be beside him in spirit in this life, and
at his death she will be waiting. Death will not be an
end but a new beginning, a reunion with her in which
their love will go on for ever within the eternal peace and
love of God ! {His voice has taken on a note of intense
longing.)
father baird. Ah, then you do see, Jack ! Thank
God !
A.W. 77 Q
DAYS WITHOUT END
john (as if he hadn't heard). One night when he is
hounded beyond endurance he rushes out — in the hope
that if he walks himself into exhaustion he may be able
to sleep for a while and forget. (Strangely, staring before
him, as if he were visualizing the scene he is describing .)
Without his knowing how he got there, he finds he has
walked in a circle and is standing before the old church,
not far from where he now lives, in which he used to
pray as a boy.
loving (jeeringly). And now we come to the great
temptation scene, in which he finally confronts his
ghosts ! (With harsh defiance .) The church challenges
him — and he accepts the challenge and goes in !
john. He finds himself kneeling at the foot of the
Cross. And he feels he is forgiven, and the old com-
forting peace and security and joy steal back into his
heart ! (He hesitates , as if reluctant to go on, as if this were
the end.)
father baird (deeply moved). And that is your end ?
Thank God !
loving (jeeringly). I’m afraid your rejoicing is a bit
premature — for this cowardly giving in to his weakness
is not the end 1 Even while he is kneeling, there is a
mocking rational something in him that laughs with
scorn — and at the last moment his will and prid§ revive
in him again ! He sees clearly by the light of reason the
degradation of his pitiable surrender to old ghostly
comforts — and he rejects them ! (His voice with sur-
prising suddenness takes on a savage vindictive quality .)
He curses his God again as he had when a boy l He
defies Him finally S He 1
78
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird (sternly). Jack ! Take care !
John (protests confusedly). No — that’s not right—
loving (strangely confused in his turn — hurriedly). Par-
don me. Uncle. Of course, that’s wrong — afraid for a
moment I let an author’s craving for a dramatic moment
run away with my sane judgment. Naturally, he could
never be so stupid as to curse what he knew didn’t exist !
John (despondently). No. He realizes he can never
believe in his lost faith again. He walks out of the
church — without love for ever now — but daring to face
his eternal loss and hopelessness, to accept it as his fate
and go on with life.
loving ( mockingly ). A very, very heroic end, as you
see 1 But, unfortunately, absolutely meaningless !
father baird. Yes. Meaningless. I’m glad you
see that.
John (rousing a bit — defensively). No — I take that
back — it isn’t meaningless. It is man’s duty to life to
go on !
loving (jeeringly). The romantic idealist again speaks !
On to Hercules ! What an inspiring slogan ! (Then
a sinister note coming into his voice.) But there is still
another end to my story — the one sensible happy end !
father baird (as if he hadn't heard this last). Jack !
Are you so blind you cannot see what your imagining
his finding peace in the church reveals about the longing
of your own soul — the salvation from yourself it holds
out to you ? Why, if you had any honesty, with your-
self, you would get down on your knees now and
79
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving. Rot ! How can you believe such childish
superstition !
father baird {angrily). Jack ! I’ve endured all I
can of your blasphemous insults to
jo-hn {confused- — hurriedly). I — I didn’t mean — I’m
sorry, Uncle. But it’s only a story. Don’t take it so
seriously.
father baird (has immediately controlled himself
quietly). Only a story, Jack ? You’re sure you still
want me to believe that ?
JOHN {defensively). Why, what else could you be-
lieve ? Do you think I ? {Then in an abrupt,
angry tone.) But that’s enough about the damned
story. I don’t want to talk any more about it !
( 'Father Baird stares at him but keeps silent. John
starts to pace up and down with nervous
restlessness — then stops abruptly .)
I — if you’ll excuse me — I think I’ll go down and see
how Elsa is. {He goes back toward the door. Loving
follows him.) I’ll be right back.
father baird {quietly). Of course, Jack. Don’t
bother about me. I’ll take a look at your library.
{He gets up. John goes out. Loving turns for a
moment to Father Baird , his eyes full of a
mocking derision. Then he turns and follows
John. Father Baird goes to the bookcase at
right and runs his eyes over the titles of books.
But he only does this mechanically. His mind
is preoccupied , his expression sad and troubled.
John's voice can be heard from below calling
DAYS WITHOUT END
“ Elsa.” Father Baird starts and listens.
Then from Elsa's bedroom John's voice is
heard , as he looks for her there . He calls
anxiously “ Elsa ” — then evidently hurries out
again , closing the door behind him. Father
Baird's face grows more worried. He goes
to the doorway in rear and stands listening to a
brief conversation from below. A moment
later John comes in from rear. He is making
a great effort to conceal a feeling of dread .
He comes forward. Loving follows silently
but stop and remains standing by the bookcase
at left of doorway .)
John. She’s — gone out.
father baird. Gone out ? But it’s still raining,
isn’t it ?
john. Pouring. I — I can’t understand. It’s a crazy
thing for her to do when she’s just getting over
father baird (with an involuntary start). Ah !
john. What ?
father baird. Nothing.
john (Jrightenedly). I can’t imagine
father baird. How long has she been gone ?
john. I don’t know. Margaret says she heard
someone go out right after we came upstairs.
father baird (with lowered voice to himself). My
fault, God forgive me. I had a feeling then I shouldn’t
leave her.
DAYS WITHOUT END
(John sinks down in the chair by the table and waits
tensely — then suddenly he bursts out.)
John. I never should have told her the story ! I’m
a God-damned fool.
father baird ( sternly ). You would be more honest
with yourself if you said a self-damned fool 1 (Hearing
a sound from below.) There. Isn’t that someone now ?
(John stops for a second to listen , then hurries to
the door in rear. Loving remains where he is ,
standing motionlessly by the bookcase.)
John (calls). Is that you, Elsa ?
elsa (from downstairs — hurriedly). Yes. Don’t come
down. I’m coming up.
(A moment later she appears in the hallway.)
John. Darling ! I’ve been so damned worried.
(He starts to take her in his armsl)
elsa. Please !
(She wards him off and steps past him into the study.
She has taken off her coat and hat downstairs ,
but the lower part of her skirt and her stockings
and shoes are soaking wet. Her face is
pinched and drawn and pale, with flushed spots
over the cheek-bones , and her eyes are bright
and hard. Father Baird stares at her search-
ingly, his face sad and pitying . )
father baird (forcing a light tone — as she comes forward).
Well ! You have given us a scare, my lady.
elsa (tensely). I’m sorry, Father.
82
DAYS WITHOUT END
father baird. Your husband was half out of his
mind worrying what had happened to you.
{She sits in the chair in front of table. John stands
at right of her. Loving has gone up and stands
by the right end of table , at right , rear, of John.
His eyes are fixed on Elsa's face with an eager,
sinister intentness .)
John ( with increasing uneasiness). Elsa ! You look
sick. Do you feel ?
father baird. I’ll get her some whisky. And you,
make her go to bed at once. {He goes out the door in rear.)
John {grabbing her hands). Your hands are like ice !
elsa {pulls them away from him — coldly , without looking
at him). It’s chilly out.
john. Look at your shoes ! They’re soaked !
elsa. It doesn’t matter, does it ? {A chill runs
through her body.)
john. You’ve taken a chill. {Then forcing a tenderly
bullying tone.) You’ll go right to bed, that’s what. And
no nonsense about it, you hear !
elsa. Are you trying the bossy tender husband on
me, John ? I’m afraid that’s no longer effective.
john {guiltily). Why do you say that ?
elsa. Are you determined to act out this farce to the
end ?
john. I — I don’t know what you mean. What
makes you look at me — as if you hated me ?
83
DAYS WITHOUT END
elsa (bitterly). Hate you ? No, I only hate myself
for having been such a fool ! (Then with a hard , mocking
tone.) Shall I tell you where I went, and why ? But
perhaps I’d better put it in the form of a novel plot 1
John. I — I don’t know what you’re driving at.
elsa. I went out because I thought I’d like to drop
in on one of Lucy’s parties. But it wasn’t exciting —
hardly any adultery going on — I had no opportunity —
even if I’d been seized by any peculiar impulse of hatred
and revenge on you. So I came home. (She forces a
hard , bitter laugh.) There ! Are you satisfied ? It’s
all a lie, of course. I simply went for a walk. But so
is your story about the novel a lie.
john (stunned — stammers). Elsa, I
elsa. For God’s sake, John, don’t lie to me any
more or I — I know, I tell you ! Lucy told me all about
it this afternoon.
john. She told you ? The damned
elsa. Oh, she didn’t tell me it was you. But she
gave me all the sordid details and they were the same as
those in your story. So it was you who told on yourself.
Rather a joke on you, isn’t it ? (She laughs bitterly .)
john. I (He blurts out miserably.) Yes — it’s
true.
elsa. And it was a fine joke on me, her coming here.
You would appreciate it, if you had seen how I sympa-
thized with her, how I excused her to myself and pitied
. her. And all the while, she was pitying me ! She was
gloating ! She’s always envied us our happiness. Our
happiness !
84
DAYS WITHOUT END
John ( 'writhing ). Don’t !
elsa. She must have been laughing at me for a fool,
sneering to herself about my stupid faith in you. And
you gave her that chance — you ! You made our love
a smutty joke for her and everyone like her — you whom
I loved so 1 And all the time I was loving you, you
were only waiting for this chance to kill that love, you
were hating me underneath, hating our happiness, hating
the ideal of our marriage you had given me, which had
become all the beauty and truth of life to me 1 (She
springs to her feet — distractedly .) Oh, I can’t I
can’t ! (She starts as if to run from the room.)
John (grabbing her — imploringly). Elsa ! For God’s
sake ! Didn’t my story explain ? Can’t you believe
— it wasn’t I ? Can’t you forgive ?
elsa. No 1 I can’t forgive ! How can I forgive
— when all that time I loved you so, you were wishing
in your heart that I would die !
John (frantically). Don’t say that ! It’s mad ! Elsa !
Good God, how can you think
elsa. What else can I think ? (Then wildly.) Oh,
John, stop talking ! What’s the good of talk ? I only
know I hate life ! It’s dirty and insulting — and evil 1
I want my dream back — or I want to be dead with it !
(She is shaken again by a wave of uncontrollable chilly her
teeth chatter — pitiably .) Oh, John, leave me alone !
I’m cold, I’m sick. I feel crazy !
father baird (comes in through the doorway at rear —
sharply). Jack ! Why haven’t you got her to bed ?
Can’t you see she’s ill ? Phone for your doctor.
85
DAYS WITHOUT END
(John goes out. Loving > his eyes remaining fixed
on Elsa with the same strange look , backs out
of the doorway after him.)
(Coming to Elsa — with great compassion .) My dear child,
I can’t tell you how deeply
elsa (tensely). Don’t ! I can’t bear (She is
shaken again by a chill .)
father baird (worriedly, but trying to pretend to treat
it lightly , reassuringly). You’ve taken a bad chill. You
were very foolhardy to But a day or two in bed
and you’ll be fine again.
elsa (strangely serious and bitterly mocking at the same
time). But that would spoil John’s story, don’t you
think ? That would be very inconsiderate after he’s
worked out such a convenient end for me.
father baird. Elsa ! For the love of God, don’t
tell me you took his morbid nonsense seriously ! Is that
why you ?
elsa (as if she hadn't heard him). And when he
reminded me it was raining, it all seemed to fit in so
perfectly — like the will of God ! (She laughs with
hysterical mockery , her eyes shining feverishly .)
father baird (sternly — more to break her mood than
because he takes her impiety seriously). Elsa ! Stop that
mockery 1 It has no part in you !
elsa (confusedly). I’m sorry. I forgot you were
(Then suddenly hectic again .) But I’ve never had any God,
you see — until I met John. (She laughs hysterically —
then suddenly forces control on herself and gets shakily to her
86
DAYS WITHOUT END
feet?) I’m sorry. I seem to be talking nonsense. My
head has gone woolly. I
(John enters from the hall at rear. As ne comes
forward , Loving appears in the doorway
behind him?)
John (coming to Elsa). Stillwell says for you to
elsa (distractedly). No I (Then dully?) I’ll go — to
my room. (She sways weakly. John starts toward her?)
john. Elsa ! Sweetheart !
elsa. No 1
(By an effort of will, she overcomes her weakness and
walks woodenly into her bedroom and closes
the door behind her. John makes a move-
ment as if to follow her?)
father baird (sharply). Leave her alone. Jack.
(John sinks down hopelessly on the chaise-longue .
Loving stands behind him , his cold eyes fixed
with a sinister intensity on the door through
which Elsa has just disappeared. Father
Baird makes a movement as if he were going
to follow Elsa into her room. Then he stops.
There is an expression of sorrowful foreboding
on his face. He bows his head with a simple
dignity and begins to pray silently .)
loving (his eyes now on John — with a gloating mockery).
She seems to have taken her end in your story very seri-
ously. Let’s hope she doesn’t carry that too far ! You
have enough on your conscience already — without mur-
der 1 You couldn’t live, I know, if
87
DAYS WITHOUT END
John ( shuddering — clutches his head in both hands as if to
crush out his thoughts). For God’s sake ! (His eyes turn
to the -priest. Then their gaze travels to a point in front of
Father Baird, and slowly his expression changes to one of
fearful ', fascinated awe , as if he suddenly sensed a Presence
there the priest is praying to. His lips part and words come
haltingly, as if they were forced out of him , full of imploring
fear.) Thou wilt not — do that to me again — wilt Thou ?
Thou wilt not — take love from me again ?
loving (Jeeringly). Is it your old demon you are
praying to for mercy ? Then I hope you hear his
laughter 1 (Then breaking into a cold, vicious rage.)
You cowardly fool ! I tell you there is nothing —
nothing !
John (starts back to himself — stammers with a confused
air of relief). Yes — of course — what’s the matter with
me ? There’s nothing — nothing to fear !
Curtain
ACT FOUR
THE END OF THE END
SCENE ONE
scene. The study is shown as in preceding scene , but this
scene also reveals the interior of Elsa's bedroom at left
of study.
At right of bedroom , front , is the door between the two
rooms. At rear of this door, in the middle of the wall ,
is a dressing table , mirror and chair. In the left waif
rear , is the door to the bathroom. Before this door
is a screen. At left, front , is the bed , its head against
the left wall. By the head of the bed is a small stand
on which is a reading lamp with apiece of cloth thrown
over it to dim its light. An upholstered chair is beside
the foot of the bed. Another chair is by the head of the
bed at rear. A chaise-longue is at right , front , of the
room.
It is nearing daybreak of a day about a week later.
In the bedroom , Elsa lies in the bed, her eyes closed,
her face pallid and wasted. John sits in the chair
toward the foot of the bed, front. He looks on the
verge of complete mental and physical collapse. His
unshaven cheeks are sunken and sallow. His eyes,
bloodshot from sleeplessness, stare from black hollows
with a frozen anguish at Elsa's face.
Loving stands by the back of his chair, facing front.
The sinister, mocking character of his mask is accentuated
now, evilly intensified.
8.9
DAYS WITHOUT END
Father Baird is standing by the middle of the bed ,
at rear. His face also bears obvious traces of sleepless
strain. He is conferring in whispers with Doctor
Stillwell, who is standing at his right. Both are
watching Fisa with anxious eyes. At rear of Stillwell
on his right, a trained nurse is standing.
Stillwell is in his early fifties, tall, with a sharp,
angular face and grey hair. The Nurse is a plump
woman in her late thirties.
For a moment after the curtain rises the whispered
pantomime between Stillwell and the priest continues,
the Nurse watching and listening. Then Elsa stirs
restlessly and moans. She speaks without opening her
eyes, hardly above a whisper, in a tone of despairing
bitterness.
elsa. John! How could you? Our dream ! ( S/e
moans.)
John (in anguish). Elsa ! Forgive !
loving (in a cold, inexorable tone). She will never
forgive.
stillwell (frowning, makes a motion to John to be silent).
Ssshh !
(He whispers to Father Baird, his eyes on John.
The priest nods and comes around the comer of
the bed toward John. Stillwell sits in the
chair by the head of the bed, rear, and feels
Elsa's pulse. The Nurse moves close behind
him.)
father baird (bends over John's chair and speaks in a
low cautioning voice). Jack. You must be quiet.
90
DAYS WITHOUT END
John (his eyes are on Stillwell’s face , desperately trying
to read some answer there. He calls to him frigktenedly).
Doctor l What is it ? Is she ?
stillwell. Ssshh ! (He gives John a furious look
and motions Father Baird to keep him quiet.)
father baird. Jack ! Don’t you realize you’re
only harming her ?
John (confusedly repentant — in a low voice). I’m sorry.
I try not to, but I know it’s crazy, but I can’t
help being afraid
loving. That my prophecy is coming true — her end
in my story.
John (with anguished appeal). No ! Elsa ! Don’t
believe that !
(Elsa moans. )
father baird. You see ! You’ve disturbed her
again 1
( Stillwell gets up and after exchanging a whispered
word with the Nurse, who nods and takes his
place by the bedside , comes quickly around the
end of the bed to John '. )
stillwell. What the devil is the matter with you ?
I thought you promised me if I let you stay in here
you’d keep quiet.
John (dazedly now — suddenly overcome by a wave of
drowsiness he tries in vain to fight back). I won’t again.
( His head nods.)
stillwell (gives him a searching look — to Father Baird).
We’ve got to get him out of here.
91
DAYS WITHOUT END
john ( rousing himself- — desperately fighting back his
drowsiness). I won’t sleep ! God, how can I sleep
when !
Stillwell ( taking one arm and signalling Father Baird
to take the other — sharply but in a voice just above a whisper).
Loving, come into your study. I want to talk with you
about your wife’s condition.
john ( terrified ). Why ? What do you mean ? She
isn’t ?
stillwell {hastily , in a forced tone of reassurance). No,
no, no ! What put that nonsense in your head ? (He
flashes a signal to the priest and they both lift John to his feet.)
Come along, that’s a good fellow.
( They lead John to the door to the study at right.
Loving follows them silently , moving backward ,
his eyes fixed with sinister gloating intentness on
Elsa's face. Father Baird opens the door and
they pass through , Loving slipping after them.
Father Baird closes the door. They lead John
to the chaise-longue at right , front , of study ,
passing in front of the table. Loving keeps
pace with them> passing to rear of table .)
John (starts to resist feebly). Let me go ! I mustn’t
leave her ! I’m afraid !
(They get him seated on the chaise-longue , Loving
taking up a position directly behind him on
the other side of the chaise-longue .)
I feel there’s something
loving (with a gloating mockery). A demon who
laughs, hiding behind the end of my story !
92
DAYS WITHOUT END
(He gives a sinister laugh. Father Baird and even
Stillwell , in spite of himself \ are appalled by
this laughter . )
John (starts to his feet — in anguish). No !
FATHER BAIRD. Jack !
Stillwell ( recovering •, angry at himself and furious with
John — seizes him by the arm and forces him down on the
chaise-longue again). Stop your damned nonsense ! Get
a grip on yourself ! I’ve warned you you’d go to pieces
like this if you kept on refusing to rest or take nourish-
ment. But that’s got to stop, do you hear me ? You’ve
got to get some sleep !
father baird. Yes, Jack. You must !
stillwell. You’ve been a disturbing factor from the
first and I’ve been a fool to stand But I’ve had
enough ! You’ll stay out of her room
JOHN. No !
stillwell. Don’t you want her to get well ? By
God, from the way you’ve been acting
john (wildly). For God’s sake, don’t say that !
stillwell. Can’t you see you’re no help to her in
this condition ? While if you’ll sleep for a while
john. No ! (Imploringly .) She’s much better, isn’t
she ? For God’s sake, tell me you know she isn’t going
to Tell me that and I’ll do anything you ask !
*
loving. And don’t lie, please ! I want the truth !
stillwell (forcing an easy tone). What’s all this talk ?
She’s resting quietly. There’s no question of
A.W. 93 R
DAYS WITHOUT END
(Then quickly .) And now I’ve satisfied you on that,
lie down as you promised.
(John stares at him uncertainly for a moment- — then
obediently lies down.)
Close your eyes now.
(John closes his eyes. Loving stands by his head ,
staring down at his face. John almost imme-
diately drops off into a drugged half-sleeps his
breathing becomes heavy and exhausted. Still-
well nods to Father Baird with satisfaction —
then moves quietly to the other side of the
room , by the door to Elsa’s bedrooms beckoning
Father Baird to follow himl)
(He speaks to him in a low voice.)
We’ll have to keep an eye on him. He’s headed straight
for a complete collapse. But I think he’ll sleep now,
for a while, anyway.
(He Opens the door to the bedrooms looks in and
catches the eye of the Nurse , who is still sitting
in the chair by the head of the beds watching
Elsa. The Nurse shakes her head , answering
his question. He softly closes the door again.)
father baird. No change, Doctor ?
stillwell. No. But I’m not giving up hope ! She
still has a fighting chance ! (Then in a tone of exasperated
dejection .) If she’d only fight !
father baird (nods with sad understanding). Yes.
That’s it.
stillwell. Damn it, she seems to want to die.
94
DAYS WITHOUT END
(Then angrily .) And, by God, in spite of his apparent
grief I’ve suspected at times that underneath he wants
loving (his eyes fixed on John's face , speaks in a cold \
implacable tone). She is going to die.
John (starts half-awake — mutters). No ! Elsa !
Forgive ! (He sinks into drugged sleep again.)
stillwell. You see. He keeps insisting to him-
father baird (defensively). That’s a horrible charge
for you to make, Doctor. Why, anyone can see the
poor boy is crazed with fear and grief.
stillwell (a bit ashamed). Sorry. But there have
been times when I’ve had the strongest sense of — well,
as he said, Something (Then curtly, feeling this makes
him appear silly.) Afraid I’ve allowed this case to get
on my nerves. Don’t usually go in for psychic nonsense.
father baird. Your feeling isn’t nonsense, Doctor.
stillwell. She won’t forgive him. That’s her
trouble as well as his. (He sighs , giving way for a moment
to his own physical weariness.) A strange case. Too
many undercurrents. The pneumonia has been more
a means than a cause. ( With a trace of condescension .)
More in your line. A little casting out of devils would
have been of benefit — might still be.
father baird. Might still be. Yes.
stillwell (exasperatedly). Damn it, I’ve seen many
worse cases where the patient pulled through. If I
could only get her will to live functioning again ! If
she’d forgive him and get that off her mind, I know
she’d fight. (He abruptly gets to his feet — curtly.) Well,
talk won’t help her, that’s sure. I’ll get back.
95
DAYS WITHOUT END
(He goes into the bedroom and closes the door silently
behind him. Father Baird remains for a
moment staring sadly at the floor. In the bed-
room , Stillwell goes to the bedside. The Nurse
gets up and he speaks to her in a whisper ,
hears what she has to report , gives her some
quick instructions. She goes to the bathroom.
He sits in the chair by the bed and feels Elsa's
pulse. The Nurse comes back and hands him
a hypodermic needle. He administers this
in Elsa's arm. She moans and her body
twitches for a second. He sits, watching her
face worriedly, his fingers on her wrist. In
the study. Father Baird starts to pace back
and forth, frowning, his face tense , feeling
desperately that he is facing inevitable tragedy,
that he must do something to thwart it at once.
He stops at the foot of the chaise-longue and
stares down at the sleeping John. Then he
prays.)
father baird. Dear Jesus, grant me the grace to
bring Jack back to Thee. Make him see that Thou,
alone, hast the words of Eternal Life, the power still to
save
loving (his eyes fixed on Johns face in the same stare
— speaks as if in answer to Father Baird's prayer). Noth-
ing can save her.
John (shuddering in his sleep). No !
loving. Her end in your story is coming true. It
was a cunning method of murder !
father baird (horrified). Jack !
96
DAYS WITHOUT END
JOHN (with a tortured cry that starts hint awake). No !
It’s a lie ! (He stares around him at the air , as if he were
trying to see some presence he feels there) Liar ! Mur-
derer ! ( Suddenly he seems to see Father Baird for the
first time — with a cry of appeal — brokenly) Uncle !
For God’s sake, help me ! I — I feel I’m going mad 1
father baird (eagerly). If you would only let me
help you, Jack ! If you would only be honest with
yourself and admit the truth in your own soul now, for
Elsa’s sake — while there is still time.
John (Jrightenedly). Still time ? What do you mean ?
Is she — worse ?
father baird. No. You’ve only been sleeping a
few minutes. There has been no change.
John. Then why did you say ?
father baird. Because I have decided you must be
told the truth now, the truth you already know in your
heart.
John. What — truth ?
father baird. It is the crisis. Human science has
done all it can to save her. Her life is in the hands of
God now.
loving. There is no God !
father baird (sternly). Do you dare say that — now !
John (Jrightenedly). No — I — I don’t know what I’m
saying It isn’t I
father baird (recovering himself — quietly). No. I
know you couldn’t blaspheme at such a time — not your
true self.
97
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving {angrily). It is my true self — my only self !
And I see through your stupid trick — to use the fear
of death to
father baird. It’s the hatred you once gave your
soul to which speaks, not you ! ( Pleadingly .) I implore
you to cast that evil from your soul ! If you would only
pray 1
loving {fiercely). No !
John ( stammers torturedly). I — I don’t know I
can’t think !
father baird ( intensely ). Pray with me, Jack. (He
sinks to his knees.) Pray that Elsa’s life may be spared
to you ! It is only God Who can open her heart to
forgiveness and give her back the will to live 1 Pray
for His forgiveness, and He will have compassion on
you ! Pray to Him Who is Love. Who is Infinite
Tenderness and Pity !
John (half-slipping to his knees — longingly). Who is
Love ! If I could only believe again !
father baird. Pray for your lost faith and it will
be given you !
loving (sneeringly). You forget I once prayed to your
God and His answer was hatred and death — and a
mocking laughter !
John (starts up from his half-kneeling position , under
the influence of this memory). Yes, I prayed then. No.
It’s no good, Uncle. I can’t believe. ( Then suddenly
— with eagerness.) Let Him prove to me His Love
exists ! Then I will believe in Him again !
father baird. You may not bargain with your
98
DAYS WITHOUT END
God, Jack. (He gets wearily to Ms feet , Ms shoulders
bowed , looking tragically old and beaten — then with a last
appeal.) But I beseech you still ! I warn you ! —
before it’s too late ! — look into your soul and force your-
self to admit the truth you find there — the truth you
have yourself revealed in your story where the man,
who is you, goes to the church and, at the foot of the
Cross, is granted the grace of faith again !
loving. In a moment of stupid madness ! But
remember that is not the end !
father baird ( ignoring this). There is a fate in that
story, Jack — the fate of the will of God made manifest
to you through the secret longing of your own heart for
faith ! Take care ! It has come true so far, and I am
afraid if you persist in your mad denial of Him and your
own soul, you will have willed for yourself the accursed
end of that man — and for Elsa, death !
John (terrified). Stop ! Stop talking damned non-
sense ! ( Distractedly .) Leave me alone ! Fin sick of
your damned croaking ! You’re lying ! Stillwell said
there was no danger ! She’s asleep ! She’s getting
better ! (Then terrified again .) What made you say, a
fate in my story — the will of God ? Good God, that’s
— that’s nonsense ! I (He starts for the bedroom
door '. ) I’m going back to her. There’s Something
father baird (tries to hold him back). You can’t go
there now, Jack.
John (pushing him roughly away). Leave me alone !
(He opens the bedroom door and lurches in. Loving
has come around behind the table and slips in
after him. Father Baird, recovering from the
99
DAYS WITHOUT END
push which has sent him back against the
table , front , comes quickly to the doorway.)
{As John comes in , Stillwell turns from where he
sits beside the bedside , a look of intense anger
and exasperation on his face . John, as soon
as he enters , falls under the atmosphere of the
sick-room , his wildness drops from him and
he looks at Stillwell with pleading eyes.)
stillwell {giving up getting him out again as hopeless ,
makes a gesture for him to be silent). Ssshh !
{The Nurse looks at John with shocked rebuke.
Stillwell motions John to sit down. He does
so meekly , sinking into the chair at right, centre.
Loving stands behind the chair. Father Baird,
after a look into the room to see if his help is
needed, exchanges a helpless glance with Still-
well, and then, turning back into the study
but leaving the communicating door ajar, goes
back as far as the table. There, after a
moment's pause , he bows his head and begins
praying silently to himself. In the bedroom,
Stillwell turns back to his patient. There is a
pause of silent immobility in the room. John's
eyes are fixed on Elsa's face with a growing
terror. Loving stares over his head with cold,
still eyes.)
John {in a low, tense voice — as if he were thinking
aloud). A fate in my story — the will of God ! Some-
thing {He shudders.)
loving (in the same low tone , but with a cold, driving
intensity). She will soon be dead.
JOHN. No !
100
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving. What will you do then ? Love will be lost
to you for ever. You will be alone again. There will
remain only the anguish of endless memories, endless
regrets — a torturing remorse for murdered happiness !
john. I know ! For God’s sake, don’t make me
think
loving ( coldly remorseless — sneeringly), Do you think
you can choose your stupid end in your story now, when
you have to live it ? — on to Hercules ? But if you
love her, how can you desire to go on — with all that was
Elsa rotting in her grave behind you !
john (torturedly). No ! I can’t ! I’ll kill myself !
elsa ( suddenly moans frightenedly). No, John ! No !
loving ( triumphantly ). Ah ! At last you accept the
true end ! At last you see the empty posing of your old
ideal about man’s duty to go on for Life’s sake, your
meaningless gesture of braving fate — a childish nose-
thumbing at Nothingness at which Something laughs
with a weary scorn ! (He gives a low, scornful laugh.)
Shorn of your boastful words, all it means is to go on
like an animal in dumb obedience to the law of the blind
stupidity of life that it must live at all costs ! But where
will you go — except to death ? And why should you
wait for an end you know when it is in your power to
grasp that end — now !
elsa ( again moans frightenedly). No, John — no ! —
please, John !
lovi ng. Surely you cannot be afraid of death. Death
is not the dying. Dying is life, its last revenge upon
itself. But death is what the dead know, the warm, dark
womb of Nothingness — the Dream in which you and
Elsa may sleep as one for ever, beyond fear of separation!
IOI
DAYS WITHOUT END
John ( longingly ). Elsa and I — for ever beyond fear !
loving. Dust within dust to sleep !
John ( mechanically ). Dust within dust. (Then fright -
enedly questioning .) Dust ? (A shudder runs over him.
and he starts as if awakening from sleepy Fool ! Can
the dust love the dust ? No ! (Desperately l) Oh God,
have pity 1 Show me the way !
loving (furiously — as if he felt himself temporarily
beaten ). Coward !
John. If I could only pray ! If I could only believe
again !
loving. You cannot !
John. A fate in my story, Uncle said — the will of
God ! — I went to the church — a fate in the church
(He suddenly gets to his feet as if impelled by some force
outside him. He stares before him with obsessed eyes.)
Where I used to believe, where I used to pray !
loving. You insane fool ! I tell you that’s ended !
john. If I could see the Cross again
loving (with a shudder). No ! I don’t want to
see ! I remember too well ! — when Father and
Mother 1
John. Why are you so afraid of Him, if
loving (shaken — then with fierce defiance). Afraid ?
I who once cursed Him, who would again if (Then
hurriedly catching himself l) But what superstitious non-
sense you make me remember. He doesn’t exist !
John (takes a step toward the door). I am going !
Ip2
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving {tries to bar his path). No !
John (without touching him , makes a motion of pushing
him aside). I am going.
(He goes through the door to the study , moving like
one in a trance , his eyes fixed straight before
him. Loving continues to try to bar his path,
always without touching him. Father Baird
looks up as they pass the table.)
loving (in impotent rage). No ! You coward !
(John goes out the door in rear of study and Loving
is forced out before him.)
father baird (starting after him). Jack !
(But he turns back in alarm as, in the bedroom,
Elsa suddenly comes out of the half-coma she is
in with a cry of terror and, in spite of Stillwell,
springs up to a half-sitting position in bed ,
her staring eyes on the doorway to the study l)
elsa. John ! (Then to Stillwell.) Oh, please !
Look after him ! He might John ! Come
back ! I'll forgive I
Stillwell (soothingly). There, don’t be frightened.
He’s only gone to lie down for a while. He’s very tired.
( Father Baird has come in from the study and is
approaching the bed. Stillwell, with a signi-
ficant look , calls on him for confirmation .)
Isn’t that right, Father ?
FATHER BAIRD. Yes, Elsa.
elsa {relieved). Oh ! (She smiles faintly.) Poor
John. I’m so sorry. Tell him he mustn’t worry. I
understand now. I love — I forgive.
103
DAYS WITHOUT END
(She sinks back and closes her eyes. Stillwell
reaches for her wrist in alarm , but as he feels
her pulse his expression changes to one of
excited surprised)
father baxrd ( misreading his look — in a frightened
whisper). Merciful God ! She isn’t ?
stillwell. No. She’s asleep. (Then with sup-
pressed excitement .) That’s done it ! She’ll want to
live now !
father baird. God be praised !
(Stillwell, his air curtly professional, again turns
and whispers some orders to the Nurse.)
Curtain
scene TWO
scene. A section of the interior of an old church . A side
wall runs diagonally back from left, front, two-thirds
of the width of the stage , where it meets an end wall
that extends back from right, front. The walls are old
grey stone. In the middle of the side wall is a great
cross, its base about five feet from the floor, with a life-
size figure of Christ, an exceptionally fine piece of wood
carving. In the middle of the end wall is an arched
doorway. On either side of this door, but high up in
the wall, their bases above the level of the top of the
doorway, are two narrow, stained-glass windows .
It is a few minutes after the close of the preceding
scene. The church is dim and empty, and still. The
only light is the reflection of the dawn, which, stained
104
DAYS WITHOUT END
by the colour in the windows , jails on the wall on and
around the Cross.
The outer doors beyond the arched doorway are sud-
denly pushed open with a crash and John and Loving
appear in the doorway. Loving comes first , retreating
backward before John whom he desperately , but always
without touching him, endeavours to keep from entering
the church. But John is the stronger now and , the
same look of obsessed resolution in his eyes, he forces
Loving back.
loving (as they enter — desperately, as if he were becom-
ing exhausted by the struggle). You fool ! There is
nothing here but hatred !
john. No ! There was love ! ( His eyes fasten
themselves on the Cross and he gives a cry of hopef The
Cross !
loving. The symbol of hate and derision !
john. No ! Of love !
(Loving is forced back until the back of his head is
against the foot of the Cross. John throws
himself on his knees before it and raises his
hands up to the figure of Christ in supplication .)
Mercy ! Forgive !
loving (raging). Fool ! Grovel on your knees !
It is useless ! To pray, one must believe !
john. I have come back to Thee !
loving. Words ! There is nothing !
John. Let me believe in Thv love again !
IOC
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving. You cannot believe !
John ( imploringly ). O God of Love, hear my prayer !
loving. There is no God ! There is only death !
John ( more weakly now). Have pity on me ! Let
Elsa live !
loving. There is no pity ! There is only scorn !
john. Hear me while there is still time ! (He
waits, staring at the Cross with anguished eyes , his arms
outstretched. There is a pause of silence .)
loving (with triumphant mockery ). Silence ! But
behind it I hear mocking laughter 1
john (agonized). No ! (He gives way , his head
bowed , and sobs heartbrokenly — then stops suddenly , and
looking up at the Cross again , speaks sobbingly in a strange
humble tone of broken reproach. ) O Son of Man, I am
Thou and Thou art I ! Why hast Thou forsaken me ?
0 Brother Who lived and loved and suffered and died
with us, Who knoweth the tortured hearts of men,
canst Thou not forgive — now — when I surrender all to
Thee — when I have forgiven Thee — the love that Thou
once took from me !
loving (with a cry of hatred ). No ! Liar ! I will
never forgive !
john (his eyes fixed on the face of the Crucified suddenly
lighting up as if he now saw there the answer to his prayer
— in a voice trembling with awakening hope and joy). Ah 1
Thou hast heard me at last ! Thou hast not forsaken
me ! Thou hast always loved me ! I am forgiven 1
1 can forgive myself — through Thee ! I can believe !
106
DAYS WITHOUT END
loving ( stumbles weakly from beneath the Cross). No !
I deny ! (He turns to face the Cross with a last defiance.)
I defy Thee ! Thou canst not conquer me ! I hate
Thee ! I curse Thee !
john. No ! I bless ! I love !
loving (as if this were a mortal blow, seems to sag and
collapse — with a choking cry). No !
John (with a laugh that is half sob). Yes ! I see now !
At last I see ! I have always loved ! O Lord of Love,
forgive Thy poor blind fool !
loving. No ! ( His legs crumple under him , he slumps
to his knees beside John , as if some invisible force crushed him
down.)
John ( his voice rising exultantly , his eyes on the face of
the Crucified). Thou art the Way — the Truth — the
Resurrection and the Life, and he that believeth in Thy
Love, his love shall never die !
loving (faintly , at last surrendering , addressing the
Cross not without a final touch of pride in his humility).
Thou hast conquered, Lord. Thou art — the End.
Forgive — the damned soul— of John Loving !
(He slumps forward to the floor and rolls over on his
back . , dead, his head beneath the foot of the
Cross, his arms outflung so that his body forms
another cross. John rises from his knees and
stands with arms stretched up and out, so that
he, too, is like a cross. While this is happening
the light of the dawn on the ^st 'gf jted-glass
windows swiftly rises to ■% brj#^j$mipy of
107
DAYS WITHOUT END
crimson and green and gold , as if the sun haa
risen. The grey walls of the church , -particu-
larly the wall where the Cross is, and the face
of the Christ shine with this radiance .)
John Loving — he, who had been only
John — remains standing with his arms stretched
up to the Cross, an expression of mystic exalta-
tion on his face. The corpse of Loving lies at
the foot of the Cross, like a cured cripple's
testimonial offering in a shrine.
(Father Baird comes in hurriedly through
the arched doorway. He stops on seeing John
Loving, then comes quietly up beside him and-
stares searchingly into his face. At what he
sees there he bows his head and his lips move
in grateful prayer. John Loving is oblivious
to his presence .)
father baird (_ finally taps him gently on the shoulder).
Jack.
John loving ( still in his ecstatic mystic vision — strangely).
I am John Loving.
father baird (stares at him — gently). It’s all right
now, Jack. Elsa will live.
John loving ( exaltedly ). I know ! Love lives for-
ever ! Death is dead ! Ssshh ! Listen ! Do you •
hear ?
father baird. Hear what, Jack ?
John loving. Life laughs with God’s love again !
Life laughs with love !
Curtain
108
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11